72 Hours
by YouSaidForever
Summary: She's four minutes late, which doesn't seem like all that much time when you think about it. It's the period within classes, a commercial break between reruns of Friends, the time it takes to cook a frankfurter. Four minutes is nothing, yet it changed everything. -Niley-
1. Enchanted To Meet You

_This night is sparkling, don't you let it go, __I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home_

**Miley**

"Honey are you sure you haven't forgotten to pack something?" My mom, Tish, frustratedly brushed some hair away from her face. She was a nervous wreck; shaking hands, sweaty forehead, even some lip biting was involved.

You'd think she was the one who had something to be nervous about.

"Mom," I give her a comfortable smile. "Relax. Everything is going to be okay. I'll board my plane, dad will wait for me at the airport and I swear I'll behave this weekend." I even hold up my two fingers, scouts honour way.

She blows some air into her cheeks, making them three times sizes bigger each. I have to bite my lower lip to prevent myself from laughing out loud. She looks like a fish.

"I just don't understand why _he_ couldn't just come here instead of pushing you to fly across the world so you could see him!" Mom presses her jacket closer to her body like she's experiencing a sudden whisk of cold. I grab the handle of my suitcase firmly inside my palm.

_He_ was my father. Well, he still is biologically. But other than that _he _stopped being my father the moment he dumped my mom for a much younger, controlling, blond bimbo and moved to London.

Yes, I'm aware half of the world's teenage girls would jump at the opportunity to fly across the world and even go as far as live with their father just because he moved to London out of all the places but well..I'm in the other half.

I hate to fly. I hate the blond bimbo. I hate London and most importantly, I hate my father.

"Mom, I already told you," I sigh, this time moving a few strands of hair away from my face. Now I was getting frustrated. We've been over this a thousands of times at home. She always made a big point of disagreeing to let me see my father, but this time I stood my way.

Even though I hated my father, he was still that. My father. And besides, I haven't seen him in almost a year.

"I know, I know." My mom steps closer and tries to grab me into a hug against my will. I hated hugs. They gave me creeps. What was with the whole point of smashing your body against another one? No pleasure came from that for me. So I just chose not to hug. Ever.

But I guess I could make one tiny little exception. I was after all traveling across the world and there could be a big perception of me dying on this plane.

"Okay then," Mom pulls away and wipes her eyes. Oh, so she wants me to think she's so heartbroken over my leave so that I get a guilty attack and stay home. Not gonna happen, Mom.

"I'll see you in three days," I pat her shoulder comfortably, and start to turn around when her hand stops me.

"If something happens, come straight home, understand? I don't want you to think you have to stay just because he's your father—"

I push her hand away. "Mom, I'm seventeen, I'm fully capable of taking care of me. I'll be fine." I stand on my tippy toes and give her a small peck on the cheek. "Bye."

With a small wave my mother steps away and lets me cross the parking lot of the airport. I didn't even know I took a deep breath until the door of the airport closed behind me and I let it all out.

"I can do this," I mumble to myself. Two days at my father's couldn't be that hard to withstand. I was a strong girl, almost a woman who could take this the grown up way and be totally –

I stare at the big clock on one of the big gates. 6:49 pm.

Fuck. No way. No way was this happening to me.

I grab the holder of my red suitcase and start running down the corridor, yelling silent apologises to every human being a bump into. I don't care much, though. What's important is that I get onto that plane.

I get into the elevator, pressing the number 3, the same number of the floor my plane was boarding. I tap my foot impenitently as the numbers change so slowly I think I would've made it on foot faster.

The moment the elevator door cringe open, I rush out, my suitcase bumping behind me. Everybody in the waiting room stare at me, their faces masked with amusement.

I glance at my wrist watch; 6:51 pm. Okay, okay, maybe they held off the plane. Yes. I mean, I'm only one minute late. They couldn't of have possibly closed the gate yet.

No one was was on time in the 21st century. Everybody was always late.

With newfound hope, I start dragging my suitcase alongside the white floor until I find the big green number 6 flashing in front of me. I let out a sigh of relief. I did it.

That's when my suitcases' wheel stops moving. I kneel down, and realise it's stuck in a small wrinkly hole.

I look towards the flight attendant who took the last boarding ticket and behind an old woman closed the door. I contemplated between screaming and yelling for help, and racing towards the gate and explaining how fate was a funny little thing but at the end I realised no matter what I'd do there's no way they'd let me on that plane.

Once the door close, they stay closed.

I stare at the wheel, thinking if I call my mother and tell her the plane left without me, she'd have a heart attack and instantly come and get me. She'd say it's a miracle, and that this was the God's way of saying I wasn't mean to go to my Dad's.

So to spare myself the headache she'd cause, I got up and pulled my suitcase with all the force I could. It didn't even shake. _Great_, I think bitterly, _this is just fucking great_.

I unbuckle my leather jacket and let it slide on top of the suitcase. I don't care if I look like a wacko, as I sit on top of my suitcase. Maybe under my weight it will crumble down and the whole thing will swallow me.

I don't know what's wrong with me. One moment I want more than anything to escape the American ground and just move in with my dad. My dad who was always there for me when I was younger. Who made me play soccer when I pouted and refused. Who wiped away my tears, and who read bedtime stories every night.

And then I'd remember the day he left and I'd hate him all over again.

Because what he did to my family, to _our_ family is unforgivable. You don't promise forever to someone only to deny it twenty years later. You don't spend time with someone for this long and then just pack one suitcase and ship yourself around the world; as if you try to escape the only that that should be your priority.

You don't leave your life for a young, blonde, big breasted bimbo.

I look down on my watch. 6:54 pm. I stand up. I missed my flight for four minutes. I sigh, shaking my head as if that'll cloud away my mind. When I try to move my suitcase it doesn't buckle again. Instead of doing anything about it, I just take out my plane ticket, my passport, my wallet and without another word I silently walk towards the one of the flight attendants.

She smiles the moment she sees me walking towards her. I let my lips stretch into a smile as well. Mom always taught me to never let anyone know when you're angry, tired or frustrated.

And well, I was all three of above. But nonetheless, I smile with my pearly whites flashing out. "Hello," I say, the southern accent I got from my father peeking out slightly.

The flight attendant leans over the counter, "What can I do for you, Miss?"

I turn over my shoulder. Yep, there's my suitcase. I move my head back. "I was late for my flight, and I'd love for you to check if there is any free seat on any other plane..." I push the ticket beneath the glass.

She takes it and types something at the computer. I bite my lip. What if there would be no more open spaces? What if I couldn't go to Dads this weekend?

I couldn't really decide if I'd be relieved or disappointed.

"Ah," The woman's face lit up. "I've got one open space," She looks up.

I can't help but to grin excitedly. This is good. "When does it leave?" I ask as I pull some cash out of my wallet. The flight attendant looks back at the monitor and a second later responds,

"9:00 pm." Her white sparkly teeth stab me in my eyes. I mentally groan. In two hours? This day could literally get no better.

"Isn't there any that leaves earlier?" I frown,

The flight attendant shakes her head. "Not with an open seat." She looks at me. "I'm sorry Miss, but are you taking the spot or not?"

I look away. This is where I choose. Am I going back to my mom's, and tell her I missed my flight or do I take this one and be late for my Dad's brunch?

I look back at the flight attendant. I said I'd be independent.

"I'll take it." I say before I can change my mind. I owe this to Dad. No matter how hard the divorce hurt me, he was the best father to me. Always. So I owed him this little trip to see him and by the next time he asks me to come I'll be away in college and too busy to fly across the world.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, after the flight attendant finally sent me away with my ticket in hand, I hurry towards my suitcase that stood untouched in the middle of the busy corridor.

Okay, so my plane leaves in two hours. I have enough time to figure out how to move this stupid suitcase.

First, with all of my strength I try to pull it free. Just like I had assumed, the suitcase stays intact, the wheel only digging even lower into the hole. Damn, I knew I should've thrown this old thing years ago.

With a short shake of my head, I pull away entirely and stand in front of it with my hands at my hips. I bite my lip, as I try hard to concentrate on how to free my suitcase.

Maybe I could try to punch it? Then again The Vending Machine Accident could happen again and I really don't want to cause a scene _like that_ ever again. Even though, it's not like it was entirely my fault! Emily punched it first, and then it just had to be –

"Your luggage won't move if you just stare at it."

I turn my head towards the voice. A brown curly haired guy stood beside me, holding the handle of the suitcase of his own in the palm of his hand. That's not what made me blush completely and have my mouth hang open.

It was the fact that right next to me stood the most beautiful boy I have ever set my eyes on. He had an unruly gleam inside his eyes and as I stared at his baggy sweats, a pair of white Converse and a white v-neck t-shirt I couldn't help but to feel drool coming out of my mouth.

Oh God, there was a Greek god standing next to me. And he was talking to me!

"The wheel is stuck inside a stupid hole." I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. The guy lets his suitcase out of his hand and turns to me with a silent smirk.

"May I?" He points to my suitcase. I shrug, I honestly don't care. I wouldn't care if he took my suitcase and ran off. Not that he looked like a thief. If anything he looked like he just walked out of the most expensive sports store.

I haven't noticed until now but with crimson colour climbing up my neck and cheeks, I realise the handsome Greek god is anything but Greek. In fact, he was English!

I focus my attention back on his arching back as he kneels down and you won't believe it, but I swear, with _one_ pull frees my suitcase.

I stand, awe stricken as he stands up and dusts his knees. "How the hell did you just do that?" I point towards my suitcase. "I've been trying to free this damn thing for at least twenty minutes and you just did it in less than fifty seconds!"

The guy laughs (a beautiful feeling erupts inside my stomach) and shrugs, "I've been looking at you since you strode in the room. After twenty minutes I realised you've had enough and decided to set you out of your misery."

_Strode? _

I smile. "Well, thanks." I grab the handle of my suitcase and start rolling it down the corridor. I was hungry, confused and pretty much frustrated with this whole day. I just wished the next hour would already pass so I can just board the stupid plane and go see Dad.

"Wait!" I stop when a warm hand catches my wrist. I crane my head, catching the same guy. He smiled sheepishly at me.

"My flight is in an hour and half, and I was wondering if you'd like to..." He scratches his neck. "I don't know, like, maybe join me for dinner?" He looks so hopeful, and I don't have the heart to tell him to fuck off.

So instead of anything, I silently nod and wait for him to lead the way. But he steps beside me, takes my suitcases' handle and starts peeling both of our suitcases as we step into a comfortable silence.

I don't try to speak as we enter a clean looking diner. There are only two other people in, which in the same time makes me uncomfortable and comfortable. Honestly, if Mom knew I was going to grab a bite to eat with a complete stranger, she'd lose it. And me? Well, I try to not think about the fact that the guy next to me is unknown, and try to focus on the fact he wants to have dinner with me.

"So why are you flying all the way to London?" He sits on the opposite side of me, and the way he says London makes me want to swoon. I cross my elbows on the table and lean into the chair.

"I'm visiting my dad." I state. The guy nods then flashes another gorgeous grin. "What about you?" I ask quietly.

He mimics my move and crosses his elbows. "The woman who babysat me when I was little is getting married."

I don't have the time to ask him about it because a waiter appears out of nowhere with two menus. We both take them silently, look through it and order. A moment later, the waiter is gone.

"Where do you live?" I blur out. Oh God, what is wrong with me? There's a hot guy sitting in front of me and instead of being flirty I shot up where he lives. Why would he even tell me where he lives? We're strangers!

He chuckles. "New Jersey, you?"

Surprised, I smile softly. "Me too." He raises one of his eyebrows, a quality I never learned to do, and then his face breaks out into a massive smile. Honestly, the guy looks like he just won the lottery.

"Wicked!" He finally says.

_Wicked? _

"Cool," I mumble, playing with the ends of my shirt. This is beyond awkward. Why am I here, again? Besides the point that he's too hot to say no to?

"Here is your food." The waiter is back with two big white plates. He sets one in front of the guy first, then places mine in front of me. Both me and the guy thank him, and before I know it, I'm digging into the food.

And may I just say it is delicious.

I literally moan. The guy raises an eyebrow, but I don't care about the impressions anymore. There's an awfully big chance I'm never going to see him, ever again. So I might as well be me.

"This is so good it's making me you-know-what!" I rest my fork against the plate and reach for my glass of water.

"Aren't you a tad wanky?" He sets his spoon down and grabs his soda. I watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he drinks. Once he settles his drink back down, I pout my lips.

"Am I supposed to understand?" I stab some lettuce off my plate and stuff it inside my mouth. Even the vegetables are yummy.

Who knew airport food was this...awesome?

"Oh lord," He leans his head back and laughs loudly. I look away, embarrassed. Am I that much of a dork? Oh man, he was probably laughing at my poor conversation skills.

"What I meant to say was..." He starts once the laugher quiets down. "That you don't think before you speak." He gives me a smile again, and I wonder what did I do in my life to deserve his smiles? I must've done _something amazing_ for it.

I push my plate away as I chew off the last bit of potatoes off of my fork. "Is that a bad thing or a good thing?"

The guy, which I will call English from now on because he's indeed english, and because I can't concentrate on anything besides his _gorgeous_ face which makes me think of One Direction and their hot accents.

Exactly, it's like a member of One Direction is sitting in front of me!

Anyway, English pushes his plate away as well, and then focuses his attention at me. He stares into my eyes as if I hold all the answers of the questions he wants to ask. But instead of doing anything, he just gives me a mysterious wink and says,

"Haven't decided yet."

I can feel frustration building inside me. Who was this _boy_, -he looked around my age-, and why did he think he had such strong power over me? The truth was, he had no power whatsoever over me.

No, I was an independet woman, who was just looking for someone to talk to. Yes. That's the reason why I just had dinner with him. I needed company. It had nothing to do with the fact that he's hotter than Brad Pitt.

Nothing at all.

"So are you ready to go?" He stands up and grabs his suitcase. I stand up too, confused and frozen at the spot. What in the world does he mean?

"Or you could just keep standing there and miss another flight." English walks by me, softly bumping his shoulder with mine. I take the handle of my suitcase and follow him, completely ignoring the fire he ignited on the spot where his shoulder touched mine.

"What's the number of your seat?" English asks the moment we step in front of the boarding room. I turn to look at his gorgeous face, but I find him starring at the beautiful flight attendant that changed my ticket earlier tonight.

I roll my eyes.

_He was a guy after all_, I think to myself, _and besides it's not like he's yours._

With a shake of my head I throw those thoughts out of the window. I'm not the type of a girl to like a guy the moment I lie my eyes on him. Besides, it's not like I'm going to be sitting next to him on the plane. There's just no way God's that annoying.

When I sense English's eyes are focused on me again, I innocently look up and give him a sweet smile. "I'm 16A."

He nods. "18A."

Okay, so I know I said it'd be quite annoying if he did sat next to me but I couldn't help but to feel disappointed. I honestly think he's a really nice guy, and well shoot me if I wanted to get to know him some more.

The boarding doesn't last long. When I'm next in line, I give the flight attendant my ticket and my password and with a smile she lets me through. I lose English then. He's not behind me when I enter my line of seats. He's not there when I comfortably settle inside the big blue seats.

Sometimes, I loved the fact that my dad was the CEO of some major company. It was an advantage to travel in first class, and I have say I enjoyed it.

A few minutes later, I caught English sneaking inside with his famous grin already attached onto his face.

"Why hello there," He winks as he pushes into the seat next to mine. I raise one of my eyebrows, and point to the seat next to him.

"Isn't that your seat?"

He shrugs. "I'll move the moment someone comes." I nod, feeling kind of flattered. He wanted to sit next to me.

"So are you miffed that your father has a woman in his life other than your mom and you?"

I stare at him, mortified. I can't believe his nerve! How can he just sit next to me and ask me such a personal question? He was way over the line. And I'm going to set him straight.

But trust me, I'm more surprised when something else comes out of my mouth. "How did you know he has a girlfriend?"

English shrugs. "Men are pigs."

I nod in agreement. Then I dab my finger into his chest. "That was way over the line, by the way."

He gives me a small smile. "I know, that's why I said it." I stare at him again. He was so hard to figure out. One moment he was handsome, a gentleman and a kind guy and then the next thing I know he says things that make me question my sanity.

"Mr. Are you in my seat?" An old man grumbles towards our section. English instantly gets up, but in the process of being embarrassed he hits his head against the ceiling and stumbles out of the line holding his head.

I have to try really hard not to laugh.

"Are you okay?" I bite my lower lip. It's really, really hard not to laugh.

English protrudes his tongue and I fake a gasp. Then we both end up laughing silently. All that time the man watches us, never setting a foot away from our faces. Then a flash of recognition washes over his wrinkled face and he points between us.

"Oh," He says, bringing his hands together with a soft clap. "I didn't realise you were _together_." Then he does something only elder people with a big heart do. He sits down on the end seat.

"We're not—" I try to say, but before I get the chance to finish, the man holds his hand up.

"You two sit down. I'll be perfectly fine here." English looks at the man like he's trying not to laugh, and in the meantime I'm busy thinking all of this through. What if English now regrets meeting me (not that we technically met yet) and we sit through the whole plane ride in complete and awkward silence?

But as he lowers himself into the soft fabric of his new seat, he smiles back at me reassuringly and I can't help but to feel relieved. Because the truth is that now that he's sitting there, she can't imagine it any other way. Now that he's here, she's afraid that crossing an entire ocean without him next to her might be something like torture.

"So," The man turns softy towards us, as he digs through his pockets. "how did you two meet?"

I exchange a quick glance with English.

"You wouldn't believe it, " English starts, "but it was actually in an airport."

"Ah, a true love story," the man exclaims, looking delighted to know this little piece of information. "And how did it happen?"

"Well," English begins again, this time sitting up a bit taller. "I was being quite gallant, actually, and helped her with her suitcase. We started talking then, and one thing led to another..."

The old man seems pleased, "And here you both are."

English smiles. "Indeed."

Something stings inside me and I realise something. Something really bad. I wish it was true; all of it. That it was more than just a story we made up to have some fun. I wish it was _our_ story.

But then English turns his face towards me and the magic of the realisation is gone. His eyes are practically shining with amusement as he raises an eyebrow to check if she's still sharing their joke.

I leave him a small smile before he turns back to the man who launches into a story about how he met his wife.

But the raw truth is; _things like this just don't happen in real world._ Not really. Not to me.

"And in September, it'll be fifty-six years together." The man finishes with a proud gleam inside his eyes.

"Wow," English says. "That's pretty amazing."

"I wouldn't call it amazing," the man says, still searching is pockets. "It's easy when you find the right person."

English pats his knees, which are shoved up against the seat in front of him. "Hope so," he jokes, but the man only smiles.

"Enjoy your flight," the man finally says, stuffing an earplug into one ear, and then repeating the gesture on the other side.

"You too," I whisper, but the man's head has already fallen to one side, and just like that he begins to snore.

Beneath our feet, the plane vibrates and the engines rumble to life. One of the flight attendants reminds us over the intercom that it's not allowed to smoke, and that everyone should stay seated until the captain has turned off the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign.

Another comes with some masks and shows us how to put them on in case of an accident, but her words are like a chant, empty and automatic and almost everyone in the plane I set on ignoring her.

When they both stop talking, I ease out a sigh of relief. If I manage to survive this flight, I swear I'm going to be a better person, even may try going to the elder home and read to them.

Suddenly I remember English, and I realise we're going to be stuck beside each other for the next twelve hours of our lives, and I don't even know his name!

I turn to him with a raised eyebrow. "So, are we finally gonna meet or what?"

English chuckles. "Right," he says while he blinks. I wonder if he has some kind of a teak he was born with. Then I just start thinking about something else because I can't think about _that_.

"I guess that part does traditionally come first. Sorry 'bout that." He extends his hand, "I'm Nick."

"I hope you're not lying about your name,"

"Wow," he says with a grin. "I guess the Americans are still not over the terrorist attack."

I narrow my eyes at him in mock anger and then slap him across the chest. The movement comes so naturally that I don't think twice before blushing. "Funny." I whisper.

"And you?"

"Miley."

"Miley." He repeats with a big smile and simple nod. This is not how people responded to my name. Usually the first question would be something along _are you sure you weren't supposed to be a boy_ or something even more absurd.

But Nick doesn't do that, instead he rubs his chin and simply says, "That's pretty."

And I honestly know that he's talking about my name, not me, but I'm still uncontrollably flattered. Maybe it's the accent, or the way he's looking at me with such interest, like my name is what he wants to figure out.

And there's something about him. Something that makes my heart quicken in the way it does when I'm surprised. And I think that just might be it; the surprise of meeting this boy.

I mean, after what happened with the suitcase, and with me being late..I never thought about the possibility that something good might come out of this trip, too.

And when I think that if my suitcase didn't get stuck in that damn hole, I would have never been late for my flight. Neither would I meet Nick. And that makes me smile.

_Because who would have guessed that four minutes could change everything?_

_I'll spend forever wondering if you knew, __I was enchanted to meet you_

* * *

A/N: Yes, this is me writing a brand new story. This was pretty much inspired by a book with similar happenings, and so I don't go to jail (hahaha) I'm gonna say right away that the summary is kind of a quote from that book. I changed it a bit, but it came from there. Anyway, I'm going to continue it if I see that you guys are interested in reading this. :) I kind of really liked writing this. It was a spur of the moment thing, and well I hope you like this story as much as I do :)


	2. Fear And Loathing

"_Now I see, I see it for the first time, there is no crime in being kind, not everyone __is out to screw you over, Maybe oh just maybe they just wanna get to know ya'. "_

There were a few times in the last fifteen minutes that I found myself glimpsing at my right, at the boy who seemed pretty into his phone. The conversation died down pretty quickly and I was left to do nothing except to stare at the seat in front of me.

Trust me, it got boring.

So instead, I pull out one of those safe scripts that you have scattered across the plane in case of an emergency. I flip through the first page, staring at the drawings of what you have to do if there happens to be an accident.

Then I hear a chuckle beside me. I raise my eyebrow and look at Nick who stares between the paper in my hands and my face.

"What?" I ask him, suddenly annoyed. He doesn't talk to me for a quarter of an hour, completely ignores me like I'm not sitting next to him bored out of my mind and now he thinks he can just interrupt me while I'm trying to learn how to behave when we get stuck inside a falling plane?

"Oh, nothing." He waves his hand and turns his head away.

I reach across my seat and push a finger inside his ribcage. Honestly, the act is so natural, I don't think twice before doing it. I'm surprised he's not angry after he jumps and yelps. God knows I would be. We're just two strangers after all.

But he's not angry. At least he doesn't show it. Instead, he grabs my hand pulls me closer so that I'm huddled next to him.

And I'd lie if I'd say I don't like it.

"I've never seen people read that." Nick points towards the paper in my hands. Then he lets go of my hand and I stumble back into my seat. The part of the skin on my hand that his hand touched feels cold suddenly and I wish more than anything to just lean across the seat and interlace our hands.

But I push that thought out of my mind because I'm getting crazy. It must be the little space. Nothing else can cover up my weird behaving today.

"Yeah? Well I want to be prepared." I admit, I give him attitude in my tone. You can even trace some sarcasm. But that's only because he got on my nerves with his stupid grimaces and his stupid, _stupid_ accent.

"Sure you do." He gives me a small smirk and I suddenly have a really big want to kick him between his legs. Not that I think about what's going on between his legs.

"Relax, I'm just teasing."

I huff and push the paper script of emergencies inside the seat pocket in front of me. Then I push my lips together and give Nick my best glare.

"Anyway, you're really lucky to be sitting next to me."

Nick laughs silently and cranes his neck, "Just in general?"

I grin. Okay, so he's a tease ball. At least he's somewhat nice. Besides there is something really amazing about him. I just can't pinpoint it.

"Well, particularly in case of an emergency." I shrug, trying to tease him back. He leans his head against his seat and shakes his head in mock horror.

"I feel incredibly safe. When I'm knocked unconscious during some sort of emergency landing, I can't wait to see all five-foot-nothing of you carrying me out of here." He says.

I cringe. "Don't even joke about it."

Nick inches closer, "Sorry." He whispers. He places his palm on top of my knee; and it surprises me because it's an intimate gesture, something I didn't expect from him, but nonetheless it hits me right where it should; my heart.

My skin tingles at the spot where his hand is resting, but too soon in my opinion he retrieves his hand back like my leg has burnt him and we're back to that silence.

Now, I only had three boyfriends in my life. There was Jack, who's been my first kiss and the first guy who ever held my hand. Then when I was sixteen, Justin asked me to the school dance and since he was a senior, I was more than happy to go. We dated a few months before he broke up with me because he supposedly wasn't over his ex. At last, there was Liam. A perfect boy for me. He never treated me bad. Always called when he said he will.

But I guess with time I realised that being perfect is boring. And so here I am, eighteen without a boyfriend.

And as I slip another curious glance at Nick I wonder if he's got a girlfriend? He's probably in love, already planning when he's going to propose. He looks the part. A rich London boy who fell in love with a London city girl.

"Ever been to London before?" His voice startles me back from my daydreaming and as I look back at him I realise he's looking at me. It feels strange to have a boy as handsome as he is, looking at you. Even if he's just looking at me like at a stranger.

I shake my head. "Never." It seems a bit forced. Honestly, I wasn't in the mood to talk to him anymore. He was like a drug. Once you took him, you couldn't get enough.

Nick laughs. "London's not _that_ bad."

I shrug. "I'm sure it's not." I let myself look at him again. "Wait, do you live there?"

I was kind of hoping for him to say yes. Because, even if I don't want to admit it to myself, there was a part of me that feels for him. A part that thinks he is amazing in ever aspect. And I wanted to erase that part before it even got a chance to reproduce.

I didn't want to be the girl who has a crush on a boy who she met on an airplane. So I begged God to have Nick live in London. Just so he's so far away from me that I don't get any stupid ideas. Any hopes up.

"I grew up there, yes."

I try to push away these damn thoughts –_he doesn't live in London!_-and try to focus on his dark brown eyelashes as he blinks ever few seconds. I can't think about him that way.

"Wait, you live somewhere else now?" I keep telling myself I'm asking him that because it's a proper thing to do. He started the conversation and it would be bluntly rude to just ignore the guy. After all, I'm stuck on the plane with him for the next eight hours.

But deep down I know I'm lying to myself.

"New Jersey, I already told you." He shrugs. "I go to NYADA."

"You do?" I can't mask my surprise. NYADA? That's for some really talented kids. Of course, after I learned how to play the piano there was always a part of me that wished I could go to NYADA but with my grades that was really hard to do.

And anyway, it wasn't really about NYADA that I was so surprised about.

"Let me guess, I don't look the part to study music?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"No, it's just so _close_."

"Close to what?"

I didn't mean to get my excitement out so soon. Actually, I never meant to say that out loud. And now I feel the warmth tickling my cheeks.

"To where I live, I guess." I realise what I say after it's to late so I just rush up trying to clean up the mess I made. "It's just with your whole accent and everything, I thought you were—"

"A minted London boy who's flying across the world to his governess wedding?"

I shake my head quickly, completely embarrassed now. But he's laughing. The kind of laugh that can make your stomach churn with delight not the pretended laugh you hear all the time.

"I'm only messing with you." Nick winks as he settles into his seat more comfortably. "Anyway, weren't we over this conversation at the diner?"

He's right. We were. But I completely forgot about the fact that this boy lives in New Jersey. That he's so close to me. And I wonder how I've never seen him before.

I know this isn't some Disney movie. I know I'm not going to meet the love of my life on this plane. Hell, Nick is everything but that. And besides, I don't even believe in true love. I don't believe in love at all. But I guess there was a small part of me that hoped something ridiculously amazing would happen on this trip just so I can still believe like a little girl that good things do happen.

But now as I sit in this seat next to a guy I can literally say is so perfectly unperfected –if that even makes sense—I can't help but to think about all the times life failed me.

All the times my dreams were a total let down because life just doesn't function like that. Life isn't some stupid fairytale and it was time for me to wake up.

Unfortunately, I found out about that the hard way. I can still smell the burnt pancakes as my mother begged my father to stay. I remember how heartbreaking it felt to watch two people who were never supposed to let you down, break you heart.

I hated my dad so much. I still do. It's his fault I'm even in this plane. And it's his fault I had to leave mom to herself for the next three days.

Suddenly I'm consumed by hatred. I hate my life, I hate my parents and I hate everything that's going on right now. I even hate Nick for being himself. I grip the armrest with all of my force; digging my nails into the plastic.

"Are you alright?" Nick leans closer.

_No_, I think. I want to scream to the world that I'm seriously messed up. That I hate people because all they do is hurt each other, but then a soft warm hand soothingly settles over mine and I let out a sigh.

And then I'm calm again. Okay, not exactly, because he's playing with my fingers and I find it really hard to stop thinking about his hand on my body, but it's not the anxiety attack again. For a second, I let myself believe there really is some good in the world.

And then I pull my hand away.

"If you haven't already, please buckle on your seat belts. The plane will be in the air soon." The flight attendant says loudly as she stands at the top of the aisle. I check if my seatbelt is safely tucked and once it is I look outside, too scared to look at Nick again.

Through the window, I see a few men in neon orange vests circling the enormous plane. The old man coughs in his sleep, and I turn back around, but he's resting peacefully again, his eyelids fluttering.

"Fifty-six years," Nick says, letting out a low whistle. I know it's stupid, but his whistle makes my skin prickle with sweat because it sounds so _hot_, so damn attractive. "That's impressive."

I shrug. I need to act like he's not getting to me. Even though he's already deep inside my skin. "I don't believe in that."

"In what?"

"In love, I guess. Marriage." I look back at his confused face.

"Aren't you afraid you'll end up alone?"

I shrug again. Weddings are not a happy thing. To me, they're just a failed attempt to rub in everyones faces how happy you are when in reality once the honeymoon phase is over you're left with nothing except a hollow hole in your heart because you get disappointed at how life can seem meaningless in a second.

"That's exactly what I mean," I tell him. He looks at me blankly. "It shouldn't be this huge fuss where you drag everyone halfway across the world to see you get married to your so called true love. If you want to share your life together, that's really beautiful. But it's between two people who will spend forever and that should be enough. Why the big show?"

Nick runs his hand along his jaw, obviously not sure how to answer this. I realise it's another thing that makes him even more attractive.

"It looks like it's the weddings you don't believe in," he says at last, "not marriage."

"I'm not a fan of both at the moment."

"I don't know," he says. "I think they're kind of beautiful."

I shake my head. They're not. They're all just a big fat show. Like circus only worse. "They're not beautiful. If anything, they're ugly. Because people don't do weddings for right causes. They do them because they want to rub their happiness into everyones faces. But what they don't know is that once the honeymoon phrase is over, the happiness is too."

"Wow." Nick leans his elbow on my armrest.

"I mean, think about it. You shouldn't need to prove anything if you really mean it. It should be a lot simpler than that. It should mean something."

"I think it does." Nick says, "It's a promise."

"I guess so." I finally whisper. I sigh, because I feel so tired suddenly. It's like Nick took every ounce of my power. "Not everyone keeps that promise, though." I whisper. My mind flashes back to my father.

I look at the man again, "Not everyone makes it fifty-six years, and if you do, it doesn't matter that you once stood in front of all those people and said that you would be with this person for forever. What counts is the fact that you had someone to stick by you all that time. Even when everything sucked."

Nick's starring at me with his dark brown eyes. I think he's trying to figure me out, but it's hard when I myself don't know who I am.

"How else do you know that it means something? Unless there's someone who's holding your hand during the good and bad times?" I insist. Sometimes, when I get into an argument not even God can stop me.

"So that's it?" Nick says. "No wedding, no marriage, just someone there to hold your hand through everything?"

"That's it." I nod.

Nick shakes his head in amusement. I watch as his curls shake along with his head. "So I guess we jumped right into the deep end, huh?"

I watch as the lights stretch out as far as I can see, like reflections of the stars. My hands are braided in my lap, and I take a deep breath. "What do you mean?"

"Just that the discussion about the definition of true love is usually something you talk about after three months, not three hours."

I nod towards the old man. "According to him," I say, "three hours is more like three years."

"Yes, well, that's if you're in love."

"Right. So, not us."

"No," Nick agrees with a grin. "Not us. An hour's an hour. And we're doing this all wrong."

"Why's that?" I turn fully to him.

"I know your feelings on matrimony, but we haven't covered any important stuff yet. Like for an example, you're favourite colour or your favourite food."

I give him a small smile. "Blue and Italian."

He nods appraisingly. "That's fine. For me, yellow and fish."

"Fish?" I make a face. "Really?"

"Hey!" He smiles. "No judging."

"Fine fine!" I giggle. The lights turn off inside the plane and the darkness sets over us. "Favourite animal?" I ask. At least I can pretend we can be friends tonight.

"I don't know," he says. "Dogs?"

I shake my head. "To boring. Try again."

"I guess, horses then."

"Really?" Nick nods.

"How come?" The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. He licks his lips and then looks at me again.

"When I was a kid, my parents had this ranch just outside of London. We used to go there every summer." Nick mumbles, a shadow of a small smile stretching his lips.

"And when I was about ten, my father bought me a real horse."

"So you know how to ride?"

Nick nods. "I even trained him myself. God, I loved that horse."

I can't help but to feel my heart swoon as he looks away, his eyes glazing. I wish I was there to hold his hand during all the bad times. Suddenly, I can imagine him at year of ten, riding his horse down green meadows. I smile at the thought.

"So what's _your_ favourite animal?" He asks me with a sly grin.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." I say, trying really hard not to end up laughing in his face. Nick seems taken back by my response but then he just leans back into his seat and shakes his head.

"And here I was thinking we were becoming friends." Nick places his hand over his heart and sniffs.

I punch his shoulder. "Now you're just making fun of me."

"Maybe a little," He says with a grin. "So, is it working?" He suddenly grows serious.

I raise my eyebrows, "What, me getting closer to throwing you off this plane?"

"No," He says quietly. "Me distracting you."

"From what?"

"Your claustrophobia."

I have to say, I'm taken back by that sentence. I worked so hard from the moment I saw him until now to try and act normal. I didn't want him to know I had a problem. I mean, I've been okay for a while now, but being inside a plane, in such a small corner...It was terrifying.

I smile at him, kind of grateful he did what he did. The problem was always up in the air. "A little," I admit. "Though, it's not as bad until we get up in the air."

"Why is that?" He asks, "Plenty of wide open space up there."

"But no escape route." I answer almost immediately. It's funny how honest I'm being with this guy. We've known each other for less that four hours and I'm already sharing my deepest fears with him.

"Ah," Nick says. " So you're looking for an escape route."

I nod. "Always."

"Figures." He says, sighing dramatically. "I get that from girls a lot."

I laugh. Then I close my eyes when the plane starts speeding up, barreling down the runway with a rush of noise. The plane tilts back until-with final bounce of the wheels-they're set aloft like a giant metal bird.

I wrap my hand around the armrest, and dig my nails into the plastic again. We're climbing higher into the night sky, the lights below us fade into pixelated grids. My ears begin to pop as the pressure builds, and as I lean my head against the window, I begin to fear the moment the ground will disappear beneath us, leaving us surrounded by nothing but the vast and endless sky.

Out the window, the streets, the cars everything is starting to blend together. It's growing distant and I feel my hands shaking. I watch as the world shifts into a big blur, I sit up straighter, my forehead cool against the Plexiglas as I strain to keep the sight of it all. I need to remember all of this once we disappear into the clouds.

What I fear, I guess, is not flying so much as being set adrift. But for now, we're still low enough to see the lit windows of the buildings below.

For now, Nick is beside me, keeping the clouds at bay.

"_Now the time is here, Baby you don't have to live your life in fear; and the sky is clear, is clear of fear."_

* * *

A/N: Hi beautiful people :) Tomorrow is Monday -le sigh- I'm more than taken back by the reviews I got so thank you from the bottom of my heart for that. You're truly awesome. Thank you, jonasluver4ever21, nienlovesjonas, IWantNiley3.0, Simar, mileyforever101, lifesaclimb11, shootinstars, xxiluvnileynjoejxx, Guest#1, A, Guest#2, LetitRainx3, NileyFreakk, niley4eva2012, iHannah, MissQueenyB, and ThoughtOfYou for reviewing! :)


	3. First Time

"_We're both looking for something we've been afraid to find, It's easier to be broken, It's easier to hide."_

If you'd think being stuck on the plane for hours and hours, would progress some sort of conversation out of my seat buddy – you'd be surprised. It's like whenever the conversation downs a bit, he turns his head away and stares into the mindless sky facing us through the window.

Above us, thankfully, one of the screens brightens. It's an animated movie that they play, and I have to remind myself not to glance at Nick, who obviously seemed annoyed by the fact that he was stuck in a small airplane, watching cartoons.

But with time, I realised this was going no where, so I turned my head sharply at his direction and accused, "Something wrong?"

"_Talking_ ducks?"

I shake my head. Should've realised that these british people have no heart to watch a cartoon with a simple and pleasuring smile.

But in spite him, I give him a grin. He won't push my mood down. Not when a cartoon is on. "They sing too." I add.

Nick shakes his head, but smiles nonetheless. "Don't tell me," He scratches his chin. "You've already seen it."

I hold my three fingers up. "Three times, baby."

"You _do_ understand that it's meant for five-year-olds, right?"

I shrug. "Five-to-eight-year-olds, thank you very much!"

Nick leans his elbow on the brink of my seat. He cranes his neck and with a moch girly voice asks, "How old are you again?"

"Old enough to kick you between your legs." I watch as his eyes grow in amusement.

"You," he says, laughing in spite of himself, "are as mad as a hatter."

I point my finger at him, and gasp in mock horror. "Is that a reference to a..._cartoon?"_

"No, brainiac," He shakes his head. "It's a reference to a famous work of literature by Lewis Carroll. But once again I can see how good the school system in America is."

I smack him across the chest. "Last time I checked, you chose to go to an American college!"

"True," he whispers. "But I'm able to wealth it with my British intelligence and charm."

"Right," I say. "Charm. When do I get to see some of _that?_"

His mouth twist at his corners. "Didn't I help you with your suitcase earlier?"

"Yes, yes," I tap my finger against my nose, "_That_ guy. He was absolutely great. Where did he go, again?"

Nick shakes his head and then turns to watch the screen of the tv, as a few ducks start to sing and dance. Our conversation obviously ended, and I wonder if I had insulted him in some way.

I'm about to lean forward and apologise, when a flight attendant appears in the dim aisle, a few dozen headsets strung from her arm like shoelaces. She leans towards the guy at the end and offers him one. He grumbles and shakes his hand at her.

Her smile doesn't even falter at the rudeness of the passenger, and with even more glitter in her eyes she peers up at me and Nick and asks in an exaggerated whisper, "Would either of you like one?"

Both me and Nick shake our heads, and with another big smile she leans out leaving us alone. The flight attendant goes to the next row, and Nick reaches into his pocket and emerges with his own earphones, unplugging them from his iPod.

I reach below my seat to grab my own backpack. If he wants to play mean, I'll give him mean. I can ignore him too through the whole flight, who cares that we've been talking for the last two hours...

"Ah, so you _do_ read good literature."

I look up and see Nick's eyes have fallen onto the stash of books on my lap. He leans closer and picks up the worn copy of _The Great Gatsby_. He leafs through the pages carefully due to the delicate worn out pages.

"I love that writer, Fitzgerald. A true artist."

I nod, suddenly a feeling of true appreciation flashes through me. Here was this guy I had only met a couple of hours ago, and we already share the same interest in almost everything. It seems now, that even our taste in books has been picked out perfectly.

"I love him too," I say. "But I haven't read this one yet."

"You should," Nick tells me. He flicks another page. "It's one of the best books I've ever read in my life."

I nod, "I've heard." I suddenly remember my father, and his gentle hands as he cradled my body between his with a last chaste kiss on my forehead, and then he was gone. The only thing left was a stupid worn out book.

"_Somebody'_s certainly read it, though." Nick points to the worn out pages. I feel sick thinking about my father, but in one way I felt incredibly safe in the dim lit small plane aisle.

I sigh, "It's my dad's." I frown a bit, "Let's say he gave it to me."

Nick glances at me, then closes the book with a loud tap. I wince then look around thinking we've awoken someone up. Thankfully, no one even stirred in their restful sleep and I cuddled into my seat even more, as Nick raised an eyebrow.

"And?"

I bite my lip softly, "_And_ I'm taking this opportunity to give it back to him."

"But you haven't read it?"

"No, I haven't."

"I'm gonna go right ahead and guess it's more complicated than that." He offers me a small smile, but I still hold my frown.

I absolutely hated my father, and more than not I wished he could just get swallowed by Earth. It would make my life a whole lot easier.

"It's complicated alright." I mutter.

_I saw this at the bookstore and thought you might like it_, he told her that day. It was his favourite book, the one he never left lying around but instead it always had a special spot on one of the shelfs in his office.

But every time I came even remotely to begin reading it, I'd find myself thinking about all the pain my father had caused, and then I'd close it and let it drop to the floor, where I wouldn't touch it for weeks until the circle would be restarted.

"Look," Nick rushes his hand through his curls, "Some books are just to valuable to lose in all of_ this_," he waves his hand through the air as if that'll explain what _this _even is.

I take the book closer and hug it to my chest. It's as close as I'll ever get to hugging my father again.

"Yeah," I mutter. This is where we stop talking again. We're left with only this –this awkward silence, this prearranged meet up –and it seemed almost more than I could bear.

It was his fault, he started the conversation and what pissed her off the most was that he wasn't capable to prolong one. It's like he wants to talk one moment and then the other I don't even exist. And for a moment, I felt hatred for him, and hatred is the worst kind of love, a tortured longing, a misguided wish that made my heart hammer against my chest.

I can't ignore the disjoined sensation anymore; we were now two different puzzles and unfortunately nothing could make us fit together. Ever.

I wished for the longest time that my father could just come home. I wished he'd just leave the bimbo he chose over my mother, and I wished he'd just show up at our doorstep with a bouquet of red roses asking my mother for forgiveness.

But with each day my hope vanished a bit more and with time I realised that wishes only come true in fairytales. And when my father invited me to spend Easter and the holidays with him and his _wife..._that's when I first realised I absolutely hated my father.

How was it fare for him to spend a holiday surrounded with love and affection, while my mother, my poor mother who was abandoned by the only person she ever truly loved, sits alone in the house?

Instantly I pushed the idea away, I couldn't do that to my mother. I am the only thing she has left. And I won't do the same mistake my father did; I won't abandon her. Ever.

"Maybe you should reconsider,"

I turn my head back to Nick, who started humming through the pages again.

"I can always go to another library," I point out, but Nick looks at me and shakes his handsome face,

"I didn't just mean because of that,"

I nod, "I know," I say, glancing down at the book again. I catch a flash of something as he leafs through and I grab his wrist without thinking. "Wait, stop."

Nick lifts his hands, and I take the book from his lap.

"I think I saw something," I say, flipping back a few pages. My eyes narrow and my breath gets stuck in my throat when I spot an underlined sentence, the line uneven, the ink faded.

It's the simplest form of markings; nothing written, no cut off ends, just a single line, hidden deep within the book. And even after all this time, after all I have said to my father, after all I still haven't, my heart flutters at the idea that perhaps I've been missing something important all this time. And now, here it is on the page staring up at me in plain black and faded yellow.

Nick is still looking at me when I peer closer to the book. He looks confused, so I whisper the words out loud, hoping he catches the meaning behind them.

"_Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall_."

When I glance up, our eyes meet and for the briefest moment before we both look away; I see understanding. Above us, the ducks are dancing again, splashing along as the swim across some green pond, their happy little home.

I lower my head, this time to read the sentence again but to myself, then I snap the book shut and I shove it back into my bag.

* * *

I'm asleep. I know I'm drifting between dreams and reality but in the small faraway corners of my mind, I'm so exhausted I can barely breathe. In my dream, I'm on another flight, the one I've missed, three hours father along and I'm seated beside a middle-aged woman with a smelly breath who flinches and sneezes through out the whole plane ride across the Atlantic.

We never speak a word to each other, instead I put my hand on the window beside my head and watch as the clouds bubble away; as each clouds passes, I realise I'm closer to my father.

I open my eyes, awake all at once, to find Nick's face just inches from my own. He's watching me, quiet and unreadable. I bring my hand to my heart and move away, startled to find myself so close to him. Only then does it register that I basically slept on his shoulder.

"Sorry," I mumble, pulling away completely. The plane is completely dark now, and by the looks of things, I'd say everyone on the flight is asleep. Even the tv screen is black again, and I pull my wrist from where it was wedged between us, and then squint at my watch.

It doesn't help me, though, since my watch is still on America time. I run my fingers through my hair and then glance at Nick's shirt, relieved there's no sign of any drool, especially when he hands me a napkin.

"What's that for?" I take it, confused. Nick nods at the napkin and as I look at it more closely this time, I see that he's drawn one of the ducks from the movie.

I giggle softly, "Pen on napkin?" I raise my eyebrows.

He smiles. "I added the baseball cap and trainers so that he'd look more American."

"How thoughtful." I tuck the napkin at the top of my bag. I make a mental note to never let it out of my sight. "Though, we usually just call them sneakers."

Nick chuckles then and I notice the look of pure tiredness visible on his face. "You don't sleep on planes?"

He shrugs. "Normally, I do."

"But not tonight?"

He shakes his head, "Apparently not."

"Sorry again," I whisper, pointing towards his shoulder.

He waves my apology off, though and instead grins, "You looked peaceful."

"I don't feel peaceful." I mutter. Suddenly the dread of the upcoming day settles onto my stomach and I feel sick. I wish I could just open the window and get out, just throw myself off this plane so I never have to meet the woman my father left my mother for. "I can't wait to sit at the table and watch my dad be intimate with a woman I've never met before."

"You've never met her?" Nick asks, his words tugged up at the end of the sentence by his accent.

"Nope."

"Wow," he says, "So I take it you aren't that close?"

I cross my arms over my chest, "Who, me and my dad? We used to be close."

Nick cranes his neck, sincere eyes starring right into mine. "And then?"

"And then your stupid country swallowed him whole!" Nick laughs a small, uncertain laugh.

"He went over to teach for a semester at Cambridge," I explain. I feel like I can be honest with Nick, especially considering we're alone besides the sleeping people around us. "He never came back."

"When was that?"

"Almost a year ago." I shudder at the memory. It's like this whole plane ride I can't help but to think about my father and the biggest mistake he's ever made. I shake my head then, why couldn't I just let go and leave in the moment?

"And then he met this woman?"

I shake my head. "No. Apparently, they've met before he moved."

Nick makes a face. "Ouch."

"Yeah," I say. It doesn't matter that Nick looks angry at my father, even though I do feel slightly better by it, because no matter how much time passed away it was still awful to think about the moment when my mother told me that my father obviously cared more about a street bimbo, then about me and my mom.

Even though I've told the longer version of the story to a thousand different people, I can't help but to realise that with Nick it's different, because I know he understands. It's the way he's looking at me right now; the way his eyes are punching a neat little hole in my heart.

But I know it's not real. I know it's a false confidence of a hushed and darkened plane, but I don't mind. For a moment, at least, it feels real.

"You must've been shattered," He whispers. "And your mom too."

"At first...Yeah," I nod. "She hardly got out of bed. But I think she bounced back much quicker than I did.."

"How?" He asks, completely shocked, "How do you bounce back from_ that_?"

"I don't know." I say, truthfully. "I'll let you know when I figure it out." I rub my hands together as a whisk of cold touches my skin. "But my mom is doing great. She really believes they are better off apart, and she has someone new and they're both happier now."

I look away, "It's just me who's not thrilled. Especially about meeting the woman who destroyed our family."

Nick frowns. "Well I think it's brave."

"What?"

"That you're going. That you're facing up to it. That you've decided to move on. It's brave."

I shake my head. "It sure as hell doesn't feel that way."

"That's because you're in the middle of it," He says. "But you'll see."

I study him carefully. "Okay. Fine . What about you?"

"What about me?"

"I suppose you're not dreading yours half as much as I'm dreading mine?"

"Don't be too sure," he says stiffly. He'd been sitting so close, his body angled towards mine, but now he moves away, just barely but I notice it anyway.

"So, I guess you'll get to see your parents while you're home?" I try again, and this time I only get a timid nod.

"That will be nice," I say. "Are you guys close?"

Before he can answer, the beverage cart comes rolling down the aisle, the cans making bright noises as they clink against one another. The flight attendant steps on the break once she's past our row, locks it into place and then turns her back to us to begin taking orders.

Okay, so it happens really quickly. One moment Nicks hand is perfectly still resting on his lap, and then second later he reaches into the cart and takes out two miniature bottles of Jack Daniel's, wrapped in his fist. He tucks them into his pocket just seconds before the flight attendant twists back in our direction.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks, her eyes sweeping past my probably stricken face and Nick's flushed cheeks.

"I'm fine." I finally manage to get out.

"Me, too." Nick says.

When the flight attendant is gone away, the cart moving softly, I stare at him, openmouthed. He pulls the bottles out and then twists one open.

"Sorry, I just thought if we were going to do the whole 'talking about our families' thing, a bit of whiskey might help." He shrugs.

"Do you plan to work that off or something?" I blink at the bottle at his hand.

Nick cracks at smile. "Ten years' labor, I presume?"

"I was thinking something more along the lines of washing dishes," I joke, watching as he chugs a gulp down. "Or maybe carrying luggage."

"I'm gonna assume straight away you'll make me do that anyway," he says. "Don't worry, though. I'll leave a tenner on the seat when I go."

"But how can you even drink it?" I watch as he takes another gulp. I suddenly remember the disgusting taste of it on the tip of my mouth, and I instantly pull away. I don't even want to smell the stupid whiskey, let alone try it.

"Have you ever tried it?"

I nod,"I did." I sight and point to his little bottle. "Okay, so now you have your whiskey, does that mean we're gonna talk about your family?"

Nick turns to me, "Why do you care?"

I look straight back into his eyes, "Why wouldn't I care?"

He sighs, and it sounds almost like a groan. "Let's see," he says eventually. "I have an older brother, and a younger one—"

"Do they all still live in England?" I'm honestly surprised at the light tone in my voice. Why am I so interested to find out more about this guy?

"Yeah, they all still live in England," he says, unscrewing the cap of the other bottle of whiskey. "What else? My dad absolutely hated me for choosing Yale over Oxford, but my mother was really pleased because she went to university in America, too."

"Is that why he didn't come over with you at the start of school?"

Nick gives me a pained expression, like he'd rather be anywhere but here and for a second something clings onto my heart and I wish more than anything in the world I could take the pain he's feeling away from him.

"You ask an awful lot of questions, "

I roll my eyes. "I told you that my dad left us for another woman and that I haven't seen him almost a year," I say. "Come on. I'm pretty sure there's no family drama that could top that."

"You didn't tell me that," He whispers. "That you haven't seen you father in so long. I just thought you hadn't met _her_."

I fidget in my seat. Who was being nosy now? "We talk on the phone," I say, lastly. "But I'm still too angry to see him."

"Well does he know that?"

"That I'm angry?"

Nick nods.

"Of course he knows," I tile my head at him. "But we're not talking about me, right?"

"I just find it interesting," he says. "That you're so open about it. Everyone is always wound up about something in my family, but no one ever says anything."

"Maybe you'd be better off if you did, though."

"Maybe." Nick sighs, then leans away from her even further and with a small grin, asks, "How about we talk about something other than our parents?"

I bob my head up and down. Sounds like a brilliant idea. "Definitely."

But neither of us speaks. A minute ticks by, then another, and as the silence between us keeps growing, we both begin to laugh.

"I'm afraid we might discuss the weather if you don't come up with something more interesting." He says, and I raise my eyebrows.

"Me?"

He nods, "Yes, you."

"Okay," I say, cringing even before I formed the words. But there was this question blooming inside me for hours now, and hell it was better than discussing weather, so I took a deep breath and asked it: "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Nick's cheeks become red, and the smile I catch as he ducks his head is beautifully cryptic; it is, I decide, a smile with one of two meanings. The bigger part of me worries that it must be charitable, designed to make me feel less awkward for asking the question but something else keeps me wondering all the same.

Maybe _–just maybe –_it's something even kinder than that, something full of understanding, a seal on an unspoken agreement between us that something is happening here.

That this just might only be a beginning.

"_Looking at you, holding my breath, For once in my life I'm scared to death, I'm taking a chance, letting you inside."_

* * *

A/N: I broke my rule! D: I promised myself and everyone around me that I won't go online for the next 6 days, because I have to study and get better grades, and yet here I am, consumed with inspiration and I just had to fill the new chapter! Okay, so here's the deal: since I know exactly what I want to do with the next chapter, and I plan to write it tomorrow night, I shall give you an ultimatum: You give me reviews, and I'll make sure you get another chapter by monday morning, how does that sound? :D thanks for all the reviews, I appreciate them a lot and they always make me bloom with inspiration. I hope you Americans had a great Thanksgiving weekend, since we European people had to work our asses off while you sat around eating turkey ( wishing I could join you )': ). No I'm kidding, kidding :P Anyway, has anyone gone to Black Friday? :P

Please review!


	4. Come back,be here

"_I told myself don't get attached, but in my mind I play it back; spinning faster than the plane that it took you..."_

"Finally, after a long moment, he shakes his head, "No girlfriend."

With this, in my mind, some sort of a door opens and to be honest, now that they had opened I have no idea how to move further.

So instead I do what I do best; I stick my nose. "How come?"

He shrugs and I can see the muscles beneath his shirt flexing. "Haven't met anyone I want to spend fifty-two years with, I guess."

"There must be million girls at NYADA." I point to him, "All girls like rockstars."

Nick laughs. "Even you?" When I don't answer he sinks lower into his seat. "Probably more like five or six thousand."

I smile, "Mostly Americans, though, right?"

Nick leans sideways, bumping me gently with his shoulder. "I like American girls," He whispers like he's telling me a secret and I can't help but to blush at his words. He is remarkably handsome, and anything that comes out of his mouth could make _any_ girl swoon.

"So, did you have a girlfriend in high school?" I say, grinning.

Okay, so I might be kind of happy that he doesn't have a girlfriend, even though I know deep down that nothing will happen between us.

"In secondary school yes. She was perfect." He looks down then, and I wish I could make it stop hurting. Sometimes, when I think back to Liam and how perfect he was, I cry because I miss that comfortability that comes with having a boyfriend. I miss having someone I can call and talk to.

Especially now that I'm alone with mom.

"So what happened to her?" I cross my legs and lean closer to him. In the dimmed light I can see the freckles on his nose. _Adorable._

"What happened? I guess what always happens. We graduated. I left. We moved on. What happened to Mr. Pizza?"

I laugh. I knew I'd regret telling him about Liam. I shake my head, "He did more than deliver pizzas, you know."

"Newspapers too?"

I make a face at him. I'm not in the mood to argue about my ex-boyfriend. He is exactly that, an ex. Someone from my past and they always said not to live in the past, but to look forward to the future...

"What happened between you two?" Nick mimics my move and crosses his legs. I stare at the spot where his shirt rides up, and I feel a churning feeling at the pit of my stomach.

I can see the muscles there, and I wonder how much he works out.

I sigh then, adopting a philosophical tone. "What always happens, I guess." I get a light smack at my thigh for mimicking his words. But it's so light and comfortable I forgive him instantly. "He was too perfect and I realised being perfect is underrated. So I broke up with him."

"Ah," Nick says, "Epic love at its most tragic."

"You can say that," I agree, looking over at his face only to find him watching me closely.

"He's an idiot."

"That's true," I say, "He was always sort of a dumb shit, in hindsight."

"Still," Nick says, and I smile at him gratefully.

I remember when my fathers girlfriend called a few weeks ago, asking if I wanted to bring someone with me. _It's not trouble at all, if you'd like to take someone with you. Besides, I heard you have a boyfriend._, She said to me that day, and it took all of my willpower not to slam the phone down.

How dared she even call my family's house number after all the horrible things she did? How dared she then act like my friend, willing me to take someone with me to the trip. And then she even dared to mention my boyfriend, the one I had broken up with not even a few days earlier.

_You heard wrong._ I spat back into the receiver, _I'll be perfectly okay flying solo._

The truth was, though, even if we _were_ still together now, spending two days at my fathers new house with his new (bimbo) girlfriend is the last place I'd take Liam. Having to endure the night in disaster of an awkward conversation, my father acting like everything is fine when the truth is everything is falling apart—It's going to be hard enough to bare on my own; having company would only make it worse.

The potential for secondhand embarrassment was sky-high: Dad and the home-wrecker kissing amid clinking glasses, stuffing cake into each other's faces, making overly cutesy speeches...

I remember thinking, when the devil herself extended the invitation all those weeks ago, that there was nobody in the world I hated enough to subject them to that. But now, looking over at Nick, I wonder if I have got it all wrong. I wonder if it was really that there had been nobody in the world I _liked_ enough, nobody I felt so comfortable with that I'd allow them to witness this dreaded weekend.

To my surprise, I could see it; and suddenly a picture of Nick in a blue button down shirt, sitting beside me at the table holding hands, giving me the strength I need, and as ridiculous as that is –the idea of it makes my stomach flutter.

I swallow hard, blinking away the thought.

Beside me, Nick glances over at the old man, still snoring peacefully in uneven rasps.

"I've actually got to use the loo," he admits, and I nod. When I think about it, I need to use the toilette too.

"Me too, I bet we can squeeze past him."

He unbuckles his seat belt and half stands in a weird motion, bumping into the seat in front of him and eliciting a dirty look from a woman seated there. I watch as he tries to manoeuvre past the old man without waking him, and after I follow him, mimicking his exact moves, we both head down the aisle and toward the back of the plane.

A bored flight attendant in a folded-down jump seat looks up from her magazine as we pass.

The OCCUPIED lights are on above both bathroom doors, so me and Nick stand in the small space just in front of the door. We're close enough that I can smell the fabric of his shirt, the whiskey still on his breath. We're not close enough to touch, exactly, but I can feel the hairs on his arm as they tickle against my skin, and suddenly I have a longing to reach for his hand.

I lift my chin to find that he's looking down at me with the same expression I saw on his face earlier, when I woke up with my head on his shoulder. Neither of us moves and neither speaks; we just stand there watching each other in the darkness; the engines buzzing beneath our feet.

It occurs to me, in a haze, that this might be it. That he might try to kiss me, and I inch just the tiniest bit closer, my heart skidding around in my chest. Is this about to happen?

His hand brushes against mine and I feel a bolt of electricity, a shock of it moving straight up my spine.

To my surprise, Nick doesn't pull away; instead, he fits his hand into mine as if anchoring me there, then tugs gently, moving me closer.

It almost feels as if we're completely alone; no captain or crew, no rows of endless passengers, no one but us and I take a deep breath and tip my head to look up at him.

But then the door to one of the bathrooms is suddenly thrown open, bathing us in a too-bright wedge of light, and a little boy walks out trailing a long ribbon of toilet paper from one of his blue shoes.

And just like that, the moment is over.

* * *

I wake up suddenly, not even realising I've been sleeping again. The cabin in the plane is still mostly dark, but I can see that the edges of the windows re now laced with daylight, and all around me people are beginning to stir, yawning and stretching and passing trays of rubbery bacon and eggs back across to the flight attendants, who if I may add, look remarkably unwrinkled after such a long trip.

This time, though, Nick's head is resting on _my_ shoulder, pinning me into place and when my attempt to stay perfectly still instead results in a kind of twitchy tremor that sets my leg in motion, he lurches up as if he'd been shocked.

"Sorry," We both say at the exact same time, then I say it again, "Sorry."

Nick rubs his eyes like a child awakening from a long hour of sleep, then blinks at me, staring just a bit to long. I try not to take it personally, I really do, but I know I must look awful this morning. Earlier, when I stood back in the tiny bathroom, I was surprised to see how pale I looked, my eyes puffy from the stale air and high altitude.

I can't even imagine what I look like now. Every inch of my face feels achy with exhaustion, and my eyes sting really badly, then there's a soda stain near the collar of my shirt. I'm almost afraid what might be going on with my hair at the moment.

But Nick looks different, too; it's odd, seeing him in daylight, like switching the channel to HD. His eyes are still caked with sleep, and there's a line running from his chin to his cheek where it was pressed against my shirt.

But it's more than that; he looks pale, and tired, and drained. He looks like he's faraway. I look away as he arches his back in a stretch, then squints blearily at his watch,

"Almost there."

I nod, relieved that we're right on schedule, though a part of me also can't help but to wish for more time. In spite of everything, the crowded quarters, and the cramped seats, the smells that have been drifting through the plane for hours now, I don't feel quite ready to step off this plane.

The same plane where it's been so easy to lose myself in conversation, to forget all that I've left behind and all that's still ahead.

I reach forward and nudge open my window shade; the light suddenly blasting into the small space where I and Nick sat. The spell of the night is finally, officially broken.

Outside, the sky is so blue, I think I can match it with the colour of Hawaiian beaches. After so many hours in the dark, it almost hurts to look for too long.

It's only 4 AM, back in New York, and when the pilot's voice comes over the intercom, it sounds far too cheerful for that time of the day.

"Well, folks," he says, "we're making our final descent into Heathrow. The weather looks pretty good in London, twenty-two degrees and partly sunny with a chance of showers later. We'll be on the ground in just under twenty minutes, so please fasten your seat belts. It's been a pleasure flying with you, and I hope you enjoy your stay."

I turn to Nick, "Translate the weather for me, please."

"It's warm," He chuckles, and in that moment I feel too warm myself; perhaps it's the sun beating down at the window, or maybe just the proximity of the boy at my side, his shirt wrinkled and his cheeks ruddy pink.

I stretch to reach the nozzle on the panel above me, twisting all the way to the left and then closing my eyes against the thin jet of cool air.

"So," he says suddenly, cracking his knuckles one at a time.

"So."

We look at each other sideways, and something about the expression on his face –uncertainty that mirrors my own –makes me want to cry.

There's really no real distinction between last night and this morning, of course, -just dark bleeding into blue light –but even so, everything feels horribly different.

I think about the way we stood near the bathroom, how it seemed that we were at the brink of something new, of _everything_, like the whole world was changing as we were huddled together in the dark.

And now, here we are, two polite strangers, like I had imagined everything that happened. I wish, I truly do, that we could turn around and fly back in the other direction, circling the globe backward, chasing the night we left behind.

"Do you think," I say, the words emerging thickly, "we might have used up all our conversation last night?"

"Not possible," Nick says, and the way he says it, his mouth turned up in a big, crazy charming smile, his voice full of warmth, unwinds the knot in my stomach. "We haven't even gotten to the really important stuff yet."

"Like what?" I ask, trying to arrange my face in a way that won't let him know the relief I feel. "Like, what's so great about _The Great Gatsby?"_

"Not all all," he says. "More like, why pandas are becoming extinct, or the fact that Venice is sinking." He pauses, waiting for this to register to my mind, and when I keep quiet, the words goodbye imprinted into my skull, he slaps his knee for emphasis. "Sinking! The whole city! Damn, can you believe it?"

I frown in mock seriousness. I have to use every little aspect of his time I can get. "That does sound pretty important."

"It is," he insists, "And don't even get me started on the size of our footprint after this trip. Or the difference between crocodiles and alligators. Or the longest recorded flight of a chicken!"

I shake my head. "Please tell me you don't actually know that."

"Thirteen seconds," he says, leaning forward to see past her and out the window. "This is a total disaster. We're nearly to Heathrow and we haven't even discussed flying chickens." He jabs a finger at the window. "And see those clouds?"

"They're kind of hard to miss," I say, the plane is now fully enveloped inside one, the greyness pressing up against the windows as the plane dips lower and lower.

"Those are cumulus clouds. Did you know that?"

I give him a look. "I'll pretend I should know about it."

"They're the best ones."

"How come?"

"Because they look the way clouds are supposed to look, the way you draw them when you're a kid. Which is nice, you know? I mean, the sun never looks the way you draw it."

"Like a wheel with spokes?" I giggle.

"Yes. And my friends certainly never looked the way I drew them."

"Stick figures?"

"Come on now," he grins. "Give me a little credit. They had hands and feet too."

We share a smile.

"Cumulus clouds," he bobs his head, "Best clouds ever."

I shrug. "I guess I never really thought about it."

"Well, then, see?" Nick says, "There's loads more to talk about. We've only just gotten started."

The plane exists the round of clouds and I have to admit my heart slows down and a rush of illogical relief at the sight of the ground spines up through my body. It's still too far away to make any sense, because it's only a mashup of quilted fields and shapeless buildings, but it still makes me feel more safe.

Nick yawns and leans his head back against the seat. "I guess we probably should have slept more." He whispers. "I'm pretty knackered."

I give him a blank look. _Knackered?_

"Tired," he finally says, flattening the vowels and notching so his voice sounds American, though his accent has a vaguely Southern twang to it.

"I feel like I've embarked on some kind of a foreign-language course."

"Learn to speak British in just seven short hours!" Nick says in a teacher voice. I burst out laughing. "How could you pass out an advert like that?"

I roll my eyes, "Commercial. How could you pass up a _commercial_ like that?"

But Nick only grins. "See how much you've learned already?"

We almost forgot the old man sleeping beside us, because to be honest, he has been sleeping for so long, both me and Nick forgot he was even there to begin with.

Finally, he startles us, "What did I miss?" He reaches into his traveling purse and carefully removes his glasses.

"We're almost there," Nick says, "But you're lucky you slept. It was a _long_ flight."

"It was," I say, and even though Nick is facing away from me, I can swear I heard the smile in his voice. "It felt like forever," I add.

The man stops wiping his glasses and beams at us. "I told you." He says simply, then returns to the contents of his bag. I, feeling the full meaning of his statement, avoid Nicks eyes as the flight attendants do one last sweep of the aisle, reminding people to put their seat back up, fasten their safety belts and tuck away their bags.

"Looks like we could even be a few minutes early!" Nick says, "So unless customs is a complete nightmare, you might actually have a shot at making to your dads in time."

I turn to him with a smile, "Where's the wedding?"

His jaw tightens, "Paddington,"

"Where's that?"

"Near where I grew up," he says, "West London."

"Sounds nice," I offer, but he doesn't smile. Seems like he doesn't like the fact that his ex-nanny is getting married.

"It's the church we used to go to as kids," he finally says with a sigh. "I haven't been there in a long time."

"Nice," I mumble.

"So will you give the book back to him?" Nick prompts as I curl my fingers together.

"I don't know," I say truthfully. "Most likely."

He considers this for a moment, then gives me a small smile. "Will you at least wait until after you've spent a day there? Who knows, maybe you'll even like it..."

I don't plan for that to happen. I already envisioned myself marching right up to my father and handing it over, mutinously, triumphantly. If I'm going to act like a good daughter for the next two days, then I might as well do it my way.

But Nick is looking at me with great earnestness, and I can't help but to feel a bit uncomfortable under his gaze.

Our both view drifts back outside the window, and I push down a wave of panic. Not so much for the landing itself, but for all that begins and ends with it. Out the window, the ground is rushing up to meet them, making everything, all the blurry shapes below –suddenly clear. The churches, and the fences and the fast-food restaurants. I watch as it all draws closer, wrapping a hand tightly around my seat belt, bracing myself as if arriving was no better than crashing.

The wheels hit the ground with one bounce, then two, before the velocity of the landing pins us firmly to the runaway and we're shot forward like a blown cork.

We finally stop, and everything is quiet. After traveling nearly five hundred miles per hour for almost seven hours, we now commence crawling to the gate with all the unhurried speed of an apple cart.

Our runaway fans out to join others like a giant maze, until we're swallowed by an apron of asphalt stretching as far as I can see.

_So this is London_, I think to myself. My back is still to Nick, but I find myself glued to the window by some invisible force, unable to turn and face him without quite knowing why.

As we pull up the the gate, I can see the ramp stretched out to meet us, and the plane slips into position gracefully, locking on with a small shudder.

But even once we're firmly anchored in place, and the seat belt light go off with a ping, I stay still. There's a hum of noise around me as the rest of the passengers stand to collect their baggage, and Nick waits a moment, before lightly touching my arm. I whirl around.

"Ready?" He asks me, and I shake my head. He smiles softly. "Me neither." He admits, standing up anyway.

Just before it's our time to turn the file out of the row, Nick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purplish bill. He sets it on the seat he's been occupying for the past seven hours, where it sits limply, looking a bit lost against the busy pattern of the cloth.

"What's that for?" I ask, wondering if I have to do the same.

"The whiskey, remember?"

"Right," I say, peering closer, "There's no way it was worth twenty pounds, though."

He shrugs. "Thievery surcharge."

Ahead of us, the old man takes a few small birdlike steps into the asile before pausing to peer up at the overhead bins. Nick moves quickly to help, ignoring the crown of people behind us as he pulls down his battered suitcase and then waits patiently while he gets himself situated.

"Thank you," he says, beaming at him. "You're such a nice boy." He moves to begin walking, but then hesitates, as if he's forgotten something, and looks back again. "You remind me of my wife," he looks at me, and I shake my head in protest.

But the man has already begun to pivot around again, in a series of tiny steps. Finally, he starts to shuffle slowly up the aisle, leaving the two of us to watch him go.

"I hope that was a compliment." I say, looking a bit sheepish.

"Well, they've been married fifty-two years," Nick reminds me. He gives me a sideways glance as I reach for my suitcase. "Thought you didn't think much of marriage."

"I don't." I answer him, heading towards the exit.

When he catches up to me on the walkway, neither of us says a word, but I can feel it anyway, bearing down on us like a freight train: the moment when we'll be forced to say goodbye. And for the first time in hours, I suddenly feel shy.

Beside me, Nick is craning his neck to read the signs for customs, already moving on. Because that's what you do on planes. You share an armrest with someone for a few hours. You exchange stories about your life, an amusing memory or two, maybe even a joke. You comment on the weather and remark about the terrible food. You listen to that someone's snore. And then you say goodbye.

So why do I feel so completely unprepared for this next part?

I should be worrying over finding a taxi and making it on time to my fathers, meeting his woman that is not my mother. What instead of all that, I'm thinking about Nick and this realisation –this reluctance to let go –throws everything into sudden doubt.

What if I have gotten it all wrong? These past hours? What if everything is different?

Already, everything _is_ different. Already, Nick feels a million miles away. And I hate it.

When we reach the end of the corridor, we're greeted by the tail end of a long line, where their fellow passengers stand with bags all around their feet, restless and frowning.

As I drop my backpack, I think about everything I packed into my bag, trying to remember if I threw in a pen that I can use to write down a phone number or an email address, some scrap of information about him, and insurance policy against forgetting. But I feel frozen inside of me, trapped by my own inability to say anything that won7t come out sounding desperate.

Nick yawns and stretches. His hands are high in the air and his back arched, then he drops his elbow casually onto my shoulder, pretending to use me for support. But the weight of his arm feels like it just might be the only thing to unbalance me, and I swallow hard to keep myself from tearing up.

"So, are you taking a cab?" I ask, but he shakes his head and reclaims his arm.

"Tube," he says. "It's not very far."

To my biggest surprise, Nick lowers his face so it's level with mine. Then he narrows his eyes and touches a finger lightly to my cheek.

"Eyelash." He says, rubbing his thumb to get rid of it.

I crane my neck, "What about my wish?"

When he gives me one of _those_ smiles, the ones that make my stomach flutter, I simply bite down my tongue. "I made it for you," Nick says with a smile so crooked.

Is it really possible that I have only known him for ten hours?

"I wished for a speedy trip through customs," he tells me. "Otherwise, we'll be here forever."

I sigh, "Does this usually take long?"

"Not now that I've made a wish." Nick says, and then as if it were that simple, the line begins to move. He gives me a triumphant look as he steps forward, and I trail behind him, shaking my head.

"If that's all it takes, couldn't you just wish for a million dollars?"

"A million pounds," he says, "You're in London now. At least act like you're trying not to be an American."

When we reach the point where the line forks, we're greeted by joyless customs official in blue suit who's against the metal railing and pointing to a sing that indicates which direction we're meant to go.

"EU citizens to the right, all others to the left..." he repeats over and over again.

Me and Nick exchange a look, and all my uncertainty disappears. Because it's there in his face, a fleeting reluctance that matches my own. We stand there for a long time. For _too long_ and it almost seems like forever, each unwilling to part ways.

"Sir," says the official, breaking off mid-mantra to put a hand on Nick's back, sheepherding him forward, away from me. "I'm going to have to ask you to keep moving so you don't hold up the line."

"Just one minute—"Nick begins but he's cut off.

"Sir,_ now_." The man says, directing him a little bit more.

A woman in her mid twenties pushes past us, pushing me along. But before I can move even farther away, I feel a hand on my elbow and just like that Nick is beside me again. He looks down at me with his head tilted, his hand still firmly on my arm and before I have a chance to be nervous, and before I even have enough time to fully realise what's happening, I hear him mutter, "What the hell." And then, to my biggest surprise, he bends down to kiss me.

The line continues to move around us, and the custom official gives up for the moment with a frustrated sigh, but I don't notice any of it; instead, I grab Nick's shirt tightly, afraid of being swept away from him.

But his hand is pressing on my back as he kisses me, and the truth is, I have never felt so content in my entire life. His lips are soft and taste salty from the pretzels we shared earlier, and I close my eyes for a moment –just for a moment –and the rest of the world disappears.

By the time he pulls away with a grin, I'm too stunned to say anything. I stumble backward a step as the official guy hurries Nick along in the other direction, rolling his eyes. Just as they walk past, I catch Nick's finger which is pointing toward the front of his line and I nod, hoping it means I'll see him out there.

And then he's gone, and there's nothing to do but keep moving, my passport in hand, the feeling of the kiss still lingering like a stamp on my lips.

"_And this is when the feeling sinks in, I don't wanna miss you like this. Come back...be here, come back...be here."_

* * *

__A/N: like promised, here is the new chapter! What do you guys think of the story? P.S, try to guess why it's called 72 Hours...And plus, I really love hearing from you so I'd really appreciate reviews! They make me smile! :) I'm sorry it's long, but I just didn't want to cut it short..I wanted to end it right where it ended..I'm sorry about my big mistake in the last chapter; It said Nick is attending Yale instead of NYADA..Sorry it was a moment of not looking. Tomorrow is Monday which totally sucks because I really wish I could just fly down to Hawaii and enjoy tanning in the sun. Ah, perfect, don't you think? :P Anyway, good luck in school tomorrow and I hope you'll have a great weekend! (P.S, 4 more days until TVD 4x07!)


	5. Secrets

****Quick message: Just so you don't get confused, the italics are what Miley is remembering, but also what she's thinking... So it's not really a memory, but more like the way she remembers it. Don't forget to read the A/N at the bottom! Enjoy the chapter now!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"_My God, amazing that we got this far, It's like we're chasing all those stars, who's driving shiny big black cars."_

The room is enormous.

My suitcase rocks back and forth unsteadily as I hurry past the checkpoint and toward the baggage claim. It's 10:45 now, and if I don't get a cab soon, there's no way I'll make it in time for my father's brunch.

But I'm not really thinking about that yet. I'm thinking only about Nick, and when I emerge into the baggage area –an ocean of people, all huddled up close together behind a black rope, holding signs and waiting for friends and family –my heart sinks.

There are almost a dozen brightly coloured suitcases, and all around them thousands upon thousands of people, each of them searching for something; for people, or for rides or maybe even directions.

For things lost and found.

There are children and grandparents, limo drivers and airport officials, a guy with a Starbucks t-shirt and three monks in green robes. A million people, as it seems, but none of them is Nick.

I back up against the wall and set down my things. It could have been anything, really. His line could have taken longer. He could have been held up at customs. He might have emerged earlier and assumed she'd gone ahead. They could have crossed paths and not even noticed.

He might simply have left.

But still, I wait.

The giant clock above the flight board stares down at me, showing me that it's already 11:13 am. As I stare right ahead of myself, I try to block out the nagging devil on my shoulder. A mounting raise of panic raises from inside me. How could he not have said goodbye? Or maybe that's exactly what the kiss meant?

Still, after all those hours, all those moments between us, how could that just be it?

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, when I realise that I don't even know his last name. So even if I want to, I can't track him down.

Honestly, the very last place I want to go right now is a wedding. I can almost feel the last of my energy receding, like water spiralling down a drain. But as the minutes tick by, it's becoming harder to ignore the fact that I'll miss the stupid brunch.

With a giant amount of effort, I peel myself away from the wall to make one last big sweep of the place; but Nick, his white v-neck and perfect curls are nowhere to be found.

And so, with nothing more to be done, I finally make my way through the sliding doors and into the gray London streets, feeling satisfied at least that the sun didn't have the audacity to show up this morning.

* * *

The line for taxis is almost as long as the path from my house to school is, and I go by bus. I drag my suitcase to the end with a groan, falling in behind a family of Americans wearing matching red T-shirts, and talking way too loud.

Heathrow turned out to be even more busy than JFK. I wait numbly as the line creeps forward, the lack of sleep finally beginning to catch up to me. Everything seems to blur as I gaze forward from the line and to the departing busses to the line of black taxis waiting their turn, a funeral procession.

"_It can't be worse than New York." I said earlier when Nick had warned me about Heathrow, be he only shook his head._

"_A logistics nightmare of epic proportions," He called it, and of course he'd been right. _

I give my head a little shake, as if trying to rid my ear of water. _He is gone. _I tell myself. _It's as simple as it gets._ I keep my back to the terminal, resisting the urge to turn arund and look for him one more time.

Someone once told me there's a formula for how long it takes to get over someone; that it's half as long as the time you've been together. I have my doubts about how accurate this is, a calculation so simple for something as complicated as heartbreak. After all, my parents have been married for almost twenty years and it took my father only a few short weeks to fall in love with someone else.

And when I dumped Liam, it took me about ten days to feel done with him entirely. Still, I take comfort in knowledge that I've known Nick for only a couple of hours, meaning this knot in my chest should be gone by the end of the day, at the very latest.

When it's finally my turn at the front of the line, I dig through my bag for the address of the house while the cabbie, an awfully tall man with a beard so long and white he looks like Santa, tosses my suitcase roughly into the trunk.

Once again, I try not to think about the condition of the situation I'll soon be forced into. I hand over the address and the cabbie climbs back into the car without any sort of acknowledgment of his new passenger.

"How long will it take?" I ask as I slip into the backseat.

"Long time," the cabbie says, then pulls out into the slow crawl of traffic.

"Brilliant," I say under my breath as I cuddle into the seat.

When the cab pulls onto the motorway, the long-slung buildings start to give way to narrow brick houses, which stand shoulder to shoulder. I want to ask whether this is part of London proper, but I have a feeling my driver would be less than enthusiastic tour guide. If Nick were to be here, he'd undoubtedly be telling me stories about everything we pass, though there'd be enough outlandish tale and not-quite-truths sprinkled in there to keep me on my toes, too.

On the plane, he'd told me about the trips to South Africa and Argentina and China with his family, and I had folded my arms as I listened, wishing I was on my way to somewhere like that. It wasn't such a leap of faith, from where I was sitting.

There on the plane, it wasn't so hard to imagine we could be headed somewhere together.

"_Which was your favourite?" I had asked, "Of all the places you've been?"_

_He seemed to consider this for a moment before that one gorgeous dimple appeared on his face. "New Jersey."_

_I laughed out loud. "I bet," I said. "Who'd want to go to Paris when you could see Dallas?" _

"_What about you?"_

"_Alaska, probably. Or Bermudas." _

_Nick looked impressed. "Not bad. The two most far-flung states."_

"_I've been to all but one, as a matter of fact."_

"_You're kidding."_

_I shook my head. "Nope, we used to take a lot of family trips when I was younger."_

"_Let me guess, you drove all the way to Bermudas?"_

_I grinned, "We all thought it made much more sense to fly to that one, actually."_

"_So which one have you missed?"_

"_North Dakota."_

"_How come?"_

_I shrugged. "Just haven't made it there, yet, I presume."_

"_I wonder how long it would take to drive there from New Jersey."_

_I laughed. "Can you even drive on the right side of the road?" I slapped his shoulder playfully._

"_I can!" He said, flashing me a look of mock anger. "I know it's shocking to think that I might be capable to operate a vehicle on the wrong side of the road, but I'm actually quite good. You'll see when we take our big trip to North Dakota one day."_

"_I can't wait," I said, reminding myself it was only a joke. Still, the idea of the two of us crossing the country together, listening to music as the horizon rolled past, had been enough to make me smile. _

"_So what's your favourite place outside the States?" He asked. _

"_This is my first time overseas, actually." I craned my neck a bit. _

"_Really?"_

_I nodded._

"_Lots of pressure, then." _

"_On what?"_

"_London." _

"_Don't worry, my expectations aren't that particularly high."_

"_Fair enough." Nick shrugged. "So if you could go anywhere else in the world, where would it be?" He asked._

_I thought about it for a moment, then I replied with a smile, "Maybe Australia. Or Rome. What about you?"_

_Nick looked at me then, as if it was obvious, the faintest hint of a grin at the corners of his mouth. "North Dakota." He'd said._

I press my forehead against the window of the cab and once again I find myself smiling widely at the thought of him. He's like a song I can't get out of my head. Hard as I try, the melody of our first meeting runs through my mind on endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, and I don't think I can ever get tired of hearing it.

I watch with bleary eyes as the world rushes past, and I try my best to stay awake. My phone rings four times before I realise it's not the cabbies, and when I finally fish it out of my bag and see that it's my dad, I hesitate for a moment before answering.

"I'm in a cab." I say it immediately, then crane my neck to see what time it is. My stomach does a little churn when I see that it's already 11:53.

My dad sighs, and I can imagine him pacing up and down the hallway, his free hand running through his blonde hair.

"Do you know if you're close?" He asks, and I cover the mouthpiece and clear my throat loudly. The driver flinches, obviously annoyed.

"Excuse me, sir," I say, "Do you know how far are we?"

The driver puffs out his cheeks, and for a moment I remember my mother, and how nervous she seemed at the airport. "Twenty minutes." He says. "Thirty. Yeah, maybe thirty."

I frown and return my phone to my ear. "I think maybe half an hour.."

"Damn it," Dad says.

"You can start without me..."

"It's a family thing, Miley." He says. "It's not like skipping the previews at the cinema."

I roll my eyes and whisper into the receiver, "I'll be there soon, dad." And with that I shut off my phone and push it into my bag.

Then I glance down at it, and take it out again. I flip it open and dial my mothers phone number. It goes straighter to the voice mail, though, and I snap it shut with a heavy feeling. A quick calculation tells me it's still quite early back in the States, and my mom being a huge sleeper, she's probably still in bed.

The moment we pull in front of the house, I know exactly what to expect. For starters, the house is beautiful. It's massive, and the yellow creme colour they used to paint it was magnificent and to be honest, I am left in awe.

But still it doesn't mask the monster that the house holds within.

I subtly pay the driver and three minutes later, I'm left alone at the side walk with my red suitcase by my feet. If I knew this would be this hard, I would've stayed home.

"Oh my, look at how dashingly you look!" An old lady seeps out of the house in a gorgeous dress, that matches the ocean color of her eyes. I grab the holder of my suitcase a bit tighter, for a moment afraid I'd lose it.

"Uhm, excuse me?" I bite my lower lip. I bet this is the monster's mother. She looks like she could be the one who gave birth to a home-wrecker.

"Sorry," The old lady waves her hand. "I'm Denise, and you must be the groom's daughter."

I gulp back the nervous feeling at the pit of my stomach. _The groom's daughter? Groom? _

"Can you repeat that?" I feel like the handle in my hand with snap in half with how much strength I'm holding it. I don't understand...

"Well yes, you must be Miley!" Denise claps her hands excitedly. "C'mon the girls are waiting for you downstairs,"

Before I have time to react, or think about the fact that it seems that my father is getting married, Denise pulls me by my elbow and pushes me up the few stairs leading the the front door of the house.

"Better hurry," She says, and then points towards the stairwell.

I bump my suitcase down one step at a time, and I can hear the flurry of voices, and by the time I hit the bottom I'm completely surrounded.

"_There_ she is!" One of the women says and puts an arm around her shoulders to shepherd her into a small red chair by the hallway mirror.

"I hate how little space we've got in this big house," A woman starts picking up my hair, twisting me while another grabs my suitcase and a third places a bag with make up on my lap.

"We thought you might miss it," Blondie says and starts flickering off something off my cheek. I wonder, for a moment, if I have Nick's drool or something, but then I realise I'm stupid for thinking about him again.

_Miss what exactly?_ I almost ask.

"Why is everyone getting so dressed up for a stupid brunch?" I let the words out. By the look that crosses a red heads face I'd say they weren't expecting that to shoot out of my mouth.

"Miley, what are you talking about?" Blondie pats my head. "We're getting ready for the ceremony, you silly girl."

"It must be the tight room of the airplane," The red head comments. I already don't like them. Think about how stupid my dad's girlfriend must be—

Suddenly everything freezes. I stare at myself in the mirror, and it only just occurred to me what's exactly going on here.

My father had kept a secret from me. All of a suddenly everything seems to be happening too much and too fast and I smooth down my black skirt that someone dressed me in, and I bite my lip and try unsuccessfully to slow my rushing mind.

_He's getting married._, I think, marvelling at the very idea of it. _Married._

That's why my mother was so reluctant to let me go. She knew. She knew how betrayed I'd feel. How absolutely horrifying it will be to watch my father read the same vows he read to my mother - the love of his life,- to the other woman who destroyed their marriage and our family.

I shake my head, disappointment feeling my veins. A voice calls my name from down the hall, where the echoing of footsteps is growing softer. I take a deep breath, trying to remember what Nick said to me on the plane about being brave.

Downstairs, I'm led around a small living room, decorated beautifully, when I'm introduced to a guy, Tim, who will be the one walking down the aisle with me. He's rail thin and ghostly pale, and he's at least five years older than me.

He offers me a hand, which is cold and papery, and then an image of Nick flashed through my mind, but just as it entered, it's gone.

Someone hands me a pink and lavender bouquet as we're maneuverered into line behind the others, and before I can fully register what's happening, the door of the backyard are thrown open and the lightness of the beautiful day suddenly blasts into my eyes.

When it's our turn, Tim nudges me forward, and I walk with small steps, even though I'm wearing flats. My eyes fall at the thousands of people standing, watching the girl they've probably heard so much about, yet I haven't heard a thing about them.

As we make our way up the aisle, I have to remind myself to breathe. The music is loud in my ears. It's hard to tell if it's warm outside of if it's the panicky feeling I'm trying hard to push away, that familiar sensation that comes with too many people in too little space.

When we're finally near the front of the garden that is set up as an aisle, I'm startled to see my dad, standing at the altar. It seems fairly ridiculous that he should be up there at all. It doesn't fit somehow, the image of him before her, clean-shaven and bright-eyed, small purple flower pinned to his lapel.

It seems to me, that there are thousand more likely places for him to be at the moment, on this afternoon. He should be in our kitchen, wearing those ratty pyjamas of his, the ones with holes in the heels where the legs are too long. Or flipping through a stack of bills in his old office, sipping tea from his mug...There are, in fact, any number of things he should be doing right now but getting married is definitely not one of them.

It occurs to me that the woman I came to meet is probably somewhere behind me, waiting behind the curtains, dressed in a fluffy white dress. I glance up and find my Dad's eyes fixed on me. Without really meaning to, I look away, using all my concentration to keep myself moving forward.

At the top of the aisle, as I and Tim part ways, Dad reaches our and takes my hand, giving it a little squeeze. The way he looks right now; so tall and handsome in a tux, reminds me of the photos I've seen when he married my mom, and i swallow hard.

To be honest, I've been prepared to hate my fathers new woman so badly, that I'm momentarily stunned by how beautiful she looks in the bell-shaped dress and delicate veil when she appears in the doorway on the arm of her father.

She's tall and willowy, so different from mom, who is short and compact. But now, here in front of me is the woman who destroyed everything, yet she's looking so lovely and graceful that I worry that I won't have anything terrible to report to mom later.

When the bride finally reaches the altar, her eyes lock with dad's, she glances over her shoulder and flashes a smile at my dazed face.

And the rest of it? It's the same as it's always been. It's identical to hundred thousand weddings past and a hundred thousand weddings to come. The minister steps up to the altar and the father gives away his daughter with just two simple words. There are prayers delivered, vows recited and finally there are rings exchanged too.

There are smiles and tears, music and applause, even laughter when my father says "Yes," instead of "I do."

And though all grooms look happy on their wedding day, there's something in the eyes of this one particular that nearly takes my breath away. It knocks the wind out of me, makes me forget the fact that he kept this whole thing a secret from me, that looks of his, the joy in his eyes, the depth of his smile.

It stops me cold, splits me right open, wrings my heart out like it's nothing more than a stupid towel.

It makes me wish to go home all over again.

"_And everyday I see the news, all the problems we could solve, and when a situation rises, just write it into an album, seen it straight to go, I don't really like my flow, no."_

* * *

A/N: I don't have school tomorrow so I decided to update again since I have gotten SO MUCH reviews! :) Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for that you guys! You are seriously the best readers in the world. One quick thing, it's actually two days before I can watch The Vampire Diaries 4x07 which is crazy 'cause I can't believe I've lived through 2 weeks of excitement! Who else is seriously obsessed with The Vampire Diaries? :D P.S, I know there's no Nick in this chapter and I'm truly sorry for that...And btw, good guesses on title of the story some of you are really close to why I named it 72 Hours xD


	6. Chasing Pavements

QM: again, there are some memories involved! :)

* * *

**Chapter 6**

"_If I tell the world, I'll never say enough, cause it was not said to you, and that's exactly what I need to do if I'm in love with you,"_

_Once upon a time, what now seems a million years ago, when I was just a little girl and my family was still whole; there was a summer evening like any other, with all three of us out in the front yard._

_The light was long gone and the crickets were loud and mom and dad sat on the porch steps with their shoulders touching, laughing as they watched me chase fireflies around the yard._

_Each time I got close, the brilliant yellow lights would disappear again, and so when I finally did catch one, it seemed like a miracle. I cupped it in my hand carefully, like a jewel in my hand, and walked back to the porch._

"_Can I have the bug house?" I asked, and mom reached behind her for the jelly jar. We all made holes in the lid earlier, so the bug could breathe._

_As I lowered the bug inside, I pressed my face close to examine it. _

"_It's definitely a good one," Dad said matter-of-factly, and mom nodded in agreement. _

"_How come they're called lighting bugs if there's no lighting?" I asked, "Shouldn't they just be called light bugs?"_

"_Well," Dad said with a loop-sided grin. "Why are ladybugs called ladybugs if they're not ladies?"_

_I saw mom rolling her eyes and I giggled as we all watched the little bug thrash against the thick walls of the jar. _

"_Guys, do you remember when we went fishing last spring?" Mom asked later, when we were all ready to head to bed. She tugged gently at my floral printed shirt, walking me back a few steps so that I was half sitting on her lap. _

"_When we threw back all the fish we caught?" Dad asked, leaning against the lip of the couch. _

"_So they could swim again!" I clapped my hands excitedly, remembering the beautiful spring air, blossoms of new flowers..._

"_Exactly," mom whispered, "I think this guy would be more than happier too, if you let him go."_

_I said nothing, though I hugged the jar a bit closer to my chest. _

"_You know what they say," Dad said, "If you love something, set it free."_

"_What if he doesn't come back?"_

"_Some things do, some things don't." He said then, reaching over to tickle me on my chin. "I'll always come back to you anyway."_

"_You don't light up," I pointed out, but dad only smiled._

"_I do when I'm with you."_

* * *

As soon as they'd been pronounced man and wife, dad and his new woman had marched back up the aisle, where they'd promptly disappeared. Even now, a full fifteen minutes after they sealed the deal with a kiss, I haven't seen any sign of them at all.

I wonder aimlessly through the crowd, wondering how my father could know so many people. He lived in New Jersey for his whole life, and he had maybe about five friends there. A year over here, and he's apparently some kind of social butterfly.

Since when does my father hang out with women in fancy hats and men in morning suits? The whole scene, combined with my mounting jet lag, makes me feel not quite awake. Like maybe this whole thing is a big dream and I'm still back in the plane with Nick by my side, snoring softly into his shirt.

Hopefully.

"Am I supposed to be somewhere?" I ask when I stumble across Tim, who's circling the vintage white limousine out front with great interest. He shrugs, then immediately resumes his inspection of the car that will most likely whisk the happy couple off to the reception later.

On my way back to the house, I'm relieved to spot the blondie that welcomed me in the room,

"Your dad's looking for you," she says, pointing upstairs. "He and Demi are inside. She's just getting her makeup retouched a bit before it's time for photos."

_Demi?_ So the home-wrecker finally has a name.

"When's the reception?" I ask, and the way Blondie looks at me, makes my skin prickle with sweat. Apparently, that's a rather obvious piece of information.

"Did you not get an itinerary?" She crosses her arms over her chest.

"No, my dad kept this whole thing a secret until a few minutes ago when I walked into the house." I say sheepishly.

Blondie looks away awkwardly, then turns back with a big smile. "Well, it's not till six."

"So what do we do between now and then?" I ask,

"Well, the photos will take a while."

"And then?"

She shrugs. "Everyone's staying at the house, chat a bit."

I give her a blank look.

"This is not where the reception is." She explains. "It's back in a hotel."

"Fun." I say, and Blondie raises an eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to go find you dad?"

"Right." I say, without moving. "Yup."

"He's upstairs," Blondie repeats, forming the words slowly, as if worried that her friends new stepdaughter, me, might be a few ants shy of a picnic. "Right over there." She points to the big staircase behind her.

When I still make no intention to leave, Blondie's face softens.

"Look," She places her hands on my shoulders. "My father remarried when I was a bit older than you are. So I perfectly understand it. But you could do a lot worse than Demi as a stepmom, you know?"

In fact, I don't know. I barely know anything about Demi at all, but I don't say it.

Blondie frowns, "I thought mine was awful. I hated all the things she made me do. Like go to the supermarket, or clean my room. With stuff like that, it's just a matter of who's doing the asking, and because it was her, I hated it." She pauses, smiling. "Then one day, I realised it wasn't her that I was angry to begin with. It was my father."

I look away towards the staircase for a moment, before answering. "Then I guess," I say finally, "that I'm already a step ahead of you."

Blondie nods, perhaps realising that there might not be much progress she could do with me on such short notice, gives my shoulder an awkward pat and then leaves.

I look at the staircase. What exactly are you supposed to say to the father you haven't seen in ages on the occasion of his wedding to a woman you've never met?

Upstairs, the hallway is quiet. Everyone is outside waiting for the bride and the groom to emerge. My heels echo loudly on the tiled floors as I wander all the way to the last room, trailing a hand along the rough wooden walls.

Near the balcony door, the sound of voices drifts upward like smoke and I pause at the top to listen.

"You don't mind then?" a woman asks, and another one murmurs something that's too soft for me to hear. "I think it'd make things tough."

"Not at all," says the other woman, and I realise that must be Demi. "Besides, she lives with her mom."

I catch a breath. They're talking about me? Here it comes, the wicked stepmother moment.

Here's the part where I overhear all the awful things everyone's been saying about me behind my back, where I discover how glad they are that i'm out of the picture. I've spent so many months, picturing just how awful Demi might be, and now I'm so busy waiting for the proof that I nearly miss the next part of the conversation.

"I'd like to get to know her better," Demi is saying, "I really do hope they patch things up soon."

The other woman lets out a soft laugh, "Like in the next nine months?"

"Well..."Demi says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. It's enough to send me backward several steps, stumbling a bit in my too-high heels. The empty hall is dark and silent, and I feel quite chilled suddenly, despite the temperature.

Nine months? My eyes prickle with tears.

My first thought is my mother; I want nothing more than to hear her voice right now. But my phone is in the room in front of me, right where Demi is, and besides, how could I be the one to break the news?

I know mom has a tendency to take these things in stride, but this is different. This is huge. And it seems impossible that even mom could avoid feeling rattled by this piece of news.

I certainly am, anyway.

I'm still perched there like that, leaning against the doorframe and glaring at the space in front of me, when I hear footsteps around the corner, and deep sound of men laughing.

I dart down the hall a little, so that it won't look like I've been doing precisely what I've been doing. I stand there, examining my nails with what I hope to be great nonchalance when dad appears alongside the minister.

"Miley!" He says, clapping a hand on my shoulder and addressing me as if we've seen each other every day. "I want you to meet Reverend Swift."

"Nice to meet you, dear." The elderly man says, taking my hand and then turning back to dad. "I'll see you at the reception, Billy, Congratulations again."

"Thank you, Reverend." He says, and then the two of us are left there to watch the minister hobbling off, his black robe trailing behind like a cape.

When he disappears around the corner, dad turns to me with a grin.

"It's so good to see you, kiddo." He says and I feel my smile wobble and then fall. I glance back over at the door of the room, and those two words go skidding through my head again.

_Nine months. _

"Congrats," I croak out, submitting to a stilted hug, which ends up as more of a pat on the back than anything else.

Dad steps away awkwardly. "I'm glad you made it."

"Me too." I lie through my teeth. "It was nice."

"Demi is excited to meet you." He says and I bristle.

"Great." I manage to say.

Dad gives me a hopeful smile. "I think you two will get on just fine."

"Great," I say again.

He clears his throat and fidgets with his bow tie, looking stiff and uncomfortable. "Listen," he says, "I'm actually glad I found you alone. There's something I want to talk to you about."

I stand up a bit straighter, preparing myself to absorb the great impact. I don't have time to be relieved that he's actually going to tell me after all; I'm too busy working out how to react to the news of the baby.

Sullen silence? Fake surprise? Shocked disbelief?

And then my father delivers the blow finally; but it's not what I have expected at all.

"Demi was really hoping we'd do a father-daughter dance at the reception." He says, and I –somehow more stunned by this than by the far more shattering news I've been prepared for –simply stare at him.

Dad holds up his hands, "I know, I know." He says, "I told her you'd hate it, that there's no way you'd want to be out there in front of everyone with your old man..."

"I'm not much of a dancer," I say eventually.

"I know," he says, grinning, "Neither am I. But it's Demi's day, and it seems really important to her."

"Fine." I say, blinking hard. Everything is about Demi, it seems.

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"Well that's great, then." He says, sounding relieved. He rocks back on his heels, beaming at this unexpected victory. "Demi will be thrilled."

"That's just great." I say, unable to hide the note of bitterness in my voice. All of this suddenly feels out; I'm not in the mood to fight anymore. I asked for this, after all. I wanted nothing to do with his new life, and here he is, starting it without me.

But it isn't just about Demi anymore. In nine months, he'll have a new baby too, maybe even another daughter.

And he hadn't even bothered to tell me.

I'm stung by this in the same place that had been hurt by his leaving, the same tender spot that had ached when I first heard about Demi. But this time, almost without realising, I find myself leaning into it rather than away.

After all, it's one thing to run away when someone's chasing you. It's entirely another to be running all alone.

* * *

_Late last night, as me and Nick had shared a pack of tiny pretzels on the plane, he'd been quiet, studying my profile for so long without speaking that I'd finally turned to face him._

"_What?"_

"_What do you want to be when you grow up?"_

_I frowned. Where was this coming from? "That's the kind of question you ask a ten-year-old."_

"_Not always," he said. "Everyone has to be something."_

"_Well then smartass, what do you want to be?"_

_He shrugged. "I asked you first."_

"_A teacher." I said, "A ballerina."_

"_Seriously."_

"_You don't think I could be a ballerina?"_

_Nick shook his head, a grin attached to his lips. _

"_I guess I still have some time to figure it out, then." I craned my neck to look at him better. "And you?" I asked, expecting another sarcastic answer, _

"_I don't know either." He said quietly. "I know I don't want to be a lawyer."_

_I raised my eyebrows. "Is that what you dad does?"_

_But he didn't answer me at all; he just glared at the pretzels in his hand. "Never mind all this," He said after a moment. "Who wants to think about the future, anyway?"_

"_Not me," I said. "I can hardly think of the next few hours, let alone the next few years."_

"_That's why flying is so great." He said, "You're stuck where you are. You've got no choice in the matter."_

_I smiled at him. "It's not the worst place to be stuck."_

"_No, it's most certainly not." Nick agreed, popping the last pretzel in his mouth. "In fact, there's nowhere else I'd rather be right now."_

* * *

In the hallway, dad paces restlessly, checking his watch and craning his neck toward the room every few seconds as we wait for Demi to emerge from the basement.

He looks like a teenager, flushed and eager for his date to arrive, and the thought crosses my mind that maybe this is what he wanted to be when he grew up. Husband to Demi. Father to her baby. A man who spends Christmas in Scotland and goes on holiday to the south of France, who talks about art and politics and literature over slow-cooked meals and bottles of wine.

Before I could say anything about it, Demi appears at the top of the hallway, pink cheeked and radiant in her dress. Without the veil, her auburn hair now hangs in loose curls to her shoulders and she seems to glide right into dad's arms.

I look away when they kiss, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to other. After a moment, dad breaks away and sweeps an arm in my direction.

"I'd like you to meet my daughter," he says to Demi. "Officially."

Demi beams at me. "I'm so pleased you could make it." She says, pulling me into a hug. She smells of lilacs, though it's hard to tell whether it's her perfume or the bouquet she's holding.

Taking a step back, I notice the ring on Demi's finger, at least double the size of mom's, which I still sneak out of the jewellery box from time to time, slipping it onto my thumb and examing the carved faces of the diamond as if it might hold the key to my parents' unhappiness.

"Sorry it took me so long," Demi says, turning back to my dad. "But you only get to take your wedding photos once."

I really consider mentioning that this is in fact dad's second time around, but I manage to bite my tongue.

"Don't listen to her, " Dad says to me, "She takes this long even when she's just going out to the supermarket."

Demi whacks his lightly with her bouquet. "Aren't you supposed to act like a gentleman at least on our wedding day?"

Dad leans in and gives her a quick kiss. "For you, I'll try."

I flick my eyes away again, feeling like an intruder.

They pull away and dad turns towards the stairs. "We should probably get out there and say a quick hello to everyone before it's time for photos."

"Sure," Demi smiles at both me and my father as I allow them to be lead me in the direction of the open doors, downstairs. I feel a bit like I'm sleepwalking, and I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, figuring the only way out of this, this wedding, this weekend, this whole blessed event, is to just keep moving forward.

"Hey," dad says, pausing just before they reach the door. He leans down and kisses my head. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Me too," I murmur, falling back again as dad loops an arm around Demi, pulling her close before they step outside together. A cheer goes up from the crowd at the sight of them.

I trail after the happy couple as dad shakes hands and Demi kisses cheeks, occasionally introducing me to people I'll never remember, repeating names I barely hear,

To be honest, even I can't help but to feel stirred by the momentousness of the day, until I notice a woman looking rather sad than as happy as she should be at a wedding, the same lady that welcomed me when I climbed out of the cab.

"Miley," dad is saying as he guides me over to an older couple. "I want you to meet a very good friend of Demi's family, Denise Jonas. "

I shake the woman's hand, nodding politely. "We've already met."

"Yes, indeed we did." smiles at me. "I've heard so much about you."

It's really difficult to hide my surprise. "Really?"

"Of course," dad says, squeezing my shoulders. "How many daughters do you think I have?"

I stare at him, unsure of what to say when Demi arrives at our side again and greets the lady warmly.

"Well, I just wanted to say congratulations before I go." Says Mrs. Jonas." I've got another wedding to attend, of all things. But I'll be back for the reception later."

"Oh well what about that!" Demi smiles softly. "Whose is it?"

"Uh," looks away for a moment. "My ex-husbands."

I bite my lower lip. Seems like the lady is feeling the same my mother must be. I shake my head, if I knew about the whole wedding thing, I sure as hell wouldn't be here right now. So my mother has only herself to blame.

"That's terrible," Demi says. "Is the wedding far away? Do you need a lift of—"

"Paddington." Denise says, and I whip my head to look at her.

"Paddington?"

She nods, looking at me a little uncertainly, then turns her head back to dad and Demi. "It starts at two, so I better be off. But congrats again. You're a beautiful couple." She says, "I'm looking forward to tonight."

As she leaves, I stare after her, my mind racing. The thinnest silver of hope threads its way through me but before I have a chance to grab a hold of it, Blondie pushes through the crowd to announce that it's time for photos.

"Hope you're ready to smile until your lips hurt." She tells me, and I'm about as far from ready to smile as it can get right now.

Once again, I allow myself to be nudged forward, and dad and Demi follow along behind me, leaning into each other as if there's nobody else around.

The rest of the wedding party is already gathered in the garden around the house. I step aside, letting everyone step into their places because right now, my mind is million miles away.

I have no idea if Paddington is a town, or a neighbourhood, or even just a street. All I know is that it's where Nick lives, and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think back to what he said on the plane.

I blindly follow the photographer's pointed finger to a spot on the grass, where I stand obediently as the others assemble themselves around me.

When I'm told to smile, I force my lips into a shape I only hope might resemble one. But my eyes sting with the effort to stop the tears to spill out. All I can picture is Nick at the airport, with that stupid white t-shirt and sexy smirk.

The camera clicks and whirls as the photographer arranges the wedding party in different combinations; the whole group; then just the women and just the men; then several variations on the family itself; the most awkward of which involves me standing between my father and my brand new stepmother.

_It's him_, I think as the camera flashes. _It's Nick's father._

I know nothing for sure, of course. But as soon as the words comprehend in my head, I'm suddenly certain it must be true.

"Dad," I say quietly, and from where he's standing next to me, he moves his head just the tiniest bit, his smile unchanging.

"Yeah?" He asks through his teeth.

Demi's eyes slide over in my direction then back to the camera.

"I have to go."

Dad looks over at me this time and the photographer frowns and says, "You have to stay still."

"Just a minute," he yells over to the photographer, holding up a finger. To me, he says in a hushed voice. "Go where?"

Everyone is looking at me now. I feel the rose colour shadowing my cheeks. But I don't care. Because the possibility that Nick –who spent half of the flight listening to my complains about this wedding like it was a tragedy –might be preparing to watch his father marry another woman, but a woman he's known his whole life, at this very moment is too much to bear.

Nobody here will understand, I know that much is true. I don't even know if I understand myself. Yet there's an urgency to the decision, a kind of slow and desperate momentum.

Each time I blinks, each time I close my eyes he's there again; his brown curls and white pale skin.

"It's just..." I begin, then trail off again, "There's something important I need to do."

Dad looks around, raising both of his hands; clearly unable to see what on Earth I'm talking about.

"_Now_?" he asks, his voice tight. "What could you possibly have to do in this exact moment? In _London_?"

Demi is watching us, her mouth open.

"Please dad," I say, my voice soft. "It's really important."

"He shakes his head," I don't think—"

But before he has time to finish his sentence, I'm already backing away. "I swear I'll be back for the reception." I say. "And I'll have my phone!"

"Where are you even going?!"

"I'll be fine." I say, still moving backward, though this is clearly not the answer my dad is looking for. I give out a little wave as I reach the door of the house. Everyone is still eyeing me as if I've lost my mind, and maybe in a way I have, but I need to know for sure.

I grab the handle of the door and glance back at my dad. He looks furious. His hands are on his hips, his forehead creased. I wave again, and then step inside, letting the door close behind me.

The quietness of the house comes as a shock to me, and I stand there with my back against the cold door, waiting for someone –dad or Demi, or even her posse of bridesmaids –to come after me. But nobody does, and I suspect that it isn't because dad understands.

How could he? It's just far more likely that he just doesn't remember how to be this kind of parent anymore. It's one thing to be the guy who calls on Christmas; and it's entirely another to have to discipline your teenage daughter in front of everyone you know, especially when you're no longer quite sure of the rules.

I feel really guilty for taking advantage of him like this, especially on his wedding day, but it's like the lens have shifted; my focus is now clear.

All I want is to get to Nick.

"_Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere, or would it be a waste? Even if I knew my place should I leave it there? Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere..."_

* * *

__A/N: Hi! So, 23 days until Christmas! I can't believe another year has gone by so quickly! Btw, I plan to finish this story and Once Upon A Magazine by the time Christmas arrives because I want to start a new year with a brand new story! :D How does that sound you guys? Anyway, I know this episode has no real Nick but at least you got to read another cute moment that happened between them on the plane ride. Next chapter you get Nick, don't worry. So keep busy and keep reviewing because you guys, if I get to 100 reviews on 6 chapters I will go mental, I swear! I love all the attention this story is getting and I absolutely love how much reviews I'm getting! You guys are seriously the best readers in the world! P.S, who else dislikes Caroline and Stefan atm? Sire bond, really? They just couldn't let us enjoy DEx, could they? :P Don't worry, Julie Plec said herself, that this is just a small obstacle that Damon and Elena have to pass over to get to forever! :D Have a good week at school, xoxo!


	7. Stay

**Chapter 7**

"_Beautiful, one of a kind, You're something special babe, and you don't even realise that you're my hearts desire."_

I am already out the door and across the street, the picture of Nick's smile scolded deep into my brain, before I realise that I have absolutely no idea where I'm going.

An enormous red bus races past me, and surprised, I stumble backward a few steps before taking off after it. Even without my suitcase, I'm still to slow, and by the time I make it around the corner, the bus is already pulling away again.

Panting, I stop to squint at the bus map that's plastered at the stop, though it turns out to be little more than a tangle of colored lines and unfamiliar names. I bite my lip as I study it, thinking there must be a better way to crack this code, when I finally spot Paddington in the upper left-hand corner.

It doesn't look far at all, but then again it's really hard to feel for the scale of things, and for all I know, it's just as likely to be miles away as blocks.

I don't remember any landmarks, and I have no clue on what to do once I get there cause all I can remember is Nick saying there's a statue of mary out front of the church. I glance at the map again.

How many churches could there be in such a small part of London?

No matter the distance, I only have ten pounds in my purse, and judging by the cab ride from the airport, that will barely get me from here to the mailbox at the corner of the street.

Since the map is not going to give away any secrets, I figure it's best to just wait for another bus and ask the driver and hope he'll be able to point me in the right direction. But after nearly ten minutes of waiting no sign of a bus, I lean closer to the map and try to decipher the routes.

"You know the saying, don't you?" says a guy sitting on the bench at the bus stop. I straighten up. When I don't respond, the guy continues. "You wait for ages, and then two come along at once."

"Am I in the right place to get to Paddington?" I ask, nervously but I realise to hell with it. I may as well risk it all if I actually want to get there in time.

"Paddington?" he says, "Yeah, you're grand."

When the bus arrives few minutes later, the guy smiles encouragingly, so I don't even bother asking the driver. But as I watch out the window for signs, I wonder how I'll know when we've arrived, since most stops are labeled by street name rather than area.

After good fifteen minutes of aimless sighseeing, I finally work up the nerve to teeter to the front of the bus and ask which stop is mine.

"Paddington?" the driver says, giving her a greet. "You're headed in the wrong bloody direction!"

I groan. "Can you tell me which way is the _right_ bloody direction?"

He lets me off near Westminster with directions for how to get to Paddington by tube, and I pause for a moment on the sidewalk. My eyes travel up to the sky, where I'm surprised to see a plane flying overhead, and something about the sight of it calms me down.

I'm suddenly back in seat 18A beside Nick, surrounded by nothing but darkness.

And right there on the street corner, it strikes me again; how much of miracle it is that I've met him at all. Imagine if I'd been on time for my flight. Or if I'd spent all those hours beside someone else, a complete stranger who, even after so many miles, remained that way.

The idea that our paths might have just as easily _not_ crossed leaves me breathless, like a near-miss accident on a highway, and I can't help marveling at the sheer randomness of it all.

I pick my way through the crowded London streets, keeping an eye out for the tube stop. It's a beautiful summer Saturday and people feel the sidewalks, carrying bags from the market, pushing strollers, walking dogs, and jogging toward the parks.

I pass a boy wearing the same white shirt Nick had on earlier and my heart quickens at the sight of it.

When I finally spot the red and blue sign for the tube, I hurry down the stairs blinking into the darkness of the underground. It takes me too long to figure out the ticket machines, and I can feel the people in line behind me shift restlessly. Finally, a woman who looks a bit like the Queen takes pity on me, and first telling me which options to choose, then nudging me aside to do it herself.

"Here you go, love," she says, handing me over the ticket. "Enjoy your trip."

The bus driver told me that I'll probably need to switch trains at some point, but as far as I can tell from the map, I can get there directly on the Circle Line. There's a digital sign that says that the tube will arrive in six minutes, so I press myself into a small wedge of open space on the platform to wait.

I don't want to think about dad and the wedding I left behind, and I'm not really sure I want to think about Nick and what I might discover when I find him. The train is still four minutes away, and my head is already pounding.

I run my fingers up and down the silky fabric of my skirt, and to be honest it feels far to sticky and the woman beside me is standing far too much to close.

My eyes flicker up again as the train comes rushing out of the tunnel.

I'm never sure if things are as small as they seem, or if it's just my panic that seems to dwarf them. When I think back, I often remember stadiums as little more than gymnasiums; sprawling houses become apartment-sized in her mind because of the number of people packed in.

So right now, it's really hard to tell for sure whether the tube is actually smaller than the subway cars back home, which I've ridden in a thousand times with a kind of tentive calm, or whether it's the know it my chest that makes it seem like a matchbox car.

Much to my relief, I find a seat on the end of a row, then immediately close my eyes again. But it's not working, and as the train lurches out of the station I remember the book in my bag and I pull it out, grateful for the distraction.

I brush my thumb across the words on the cover before opening it.

People talk about books being an escape, but here on the tube, this one feels more like a lifeline. As I leaf through the pages, the rest of it fades away; the flurry of elbows and purses, the woman in a dress biting her fingernails, the two teenagers with blaring headphones, even a man whistling an annoying tune at the other end of the train.

The motion of the train makes my head rattle, but my eyes lock on the words the way a figure skater might choose a focal point she spinks, and just like that she's grounded again.

As I skip from one chapter to the next, I forget that I ever meant to return the book. The words, of course, are not my father's, but he's there in the pages all the same, and the reminder kick-starts something inside me.

Finally a big red stop sign appears at the next station holding big bold black letters, PADDINGTON STATION. I exit the train along with other passengers, past the words, and right onto the hard tiled floor.

Outside, the sun has come out even brighter. I spin in a circle, trying to get my bearings, taking in the white-trimmed pharmacy, the little antique shop, the rows of pale-colored buildings stretching the lenght of the road.

I glance at my watch; nearly three pm and I still have no idea what to do now that I'm here. As far as I can tell, there are no policemen around, no tourist offices or information booths, no bookstores or internet cafes. It's like I've been dropped into the wilderness of London without a compass of a map.

I pick up a direction at random and set off down the street. There's a fish 'n' chips place on the corner, and my stomach rumbles at the smells drifting from the door; the last thing I ate was that pack of pretzels on the plane, and the last time I slep was before that.

I'd like nothing more than to curl up and take a nap right now, but I keep moving anyway, fueled by a strange mix of fear and longing.

After ten minutes and two emerging blisters, I still haven't passed a church. Finally, emerging from an alleyway, I spot a narrow stone building across the street. I hesitate a moment, blinking at it like a mirage, then I rush forward. But then the bells start to ring in a way that seems far too joyful for the occasion, and a wedding party spills out onto the steps.

I haven't realised I've been holding a breath, but it comes rushing out of me now. I wait for the taxis to stop hurrying past and then cross the street to confirm what I already know; no statue of Mary, no Nick.

Even so, I can't pull myself away, and I stand there watching the aftermath of a wedding not unlinke the one I just witnessed myself, the flower girls and the bridesmaids, the flashes of the cameras, the friends and family all wreathed in smiles.

After a long moment, I reach into my purse. It's time to do what I always do when I'm lost. I call my mother.

My phone is nearly out of battery power, and my fingers tremble as I punch in the numbers, anxious as I am to hear my mother's voice. It seems impossible that the last time we talked was less than twenty-four hours ago. The departures lane at the airport seems like something from another lifetime.

* * *

_We've always been close, my mom and, but after my father left something shifted. I was angry, furious in a way I hadn't known it was possible. But mom, mom was broken. It was even as dangerous as beyond repair. _

_For weeks she'd moved as if she were underwater, red-eyed and heavy-footed, coming alive again only when the phone rang, her whole body quivering like a tuning fork as she waited to hear that dad had changed his mind._

_But he never did._

_In those weeks after Christmas our roles had been flip-flopped; it was me who brought mom dinner every night, who lay awake with worry as I listened to her cry, who made sure there was always a fresh box of Kleenex on the nightstand._

_And this was the most unfair part of it all; What dad had done, he hadn't just done to him and mom, and he hadn't just done to him and me. He'd done it to me and mom, too, had turned the easy rythms between us into something brittle and complicated, something that could shatter at any moment. _

_To me, it seemed that things would never return to normal, that we were forever meant to pinball between anger and sadness, the hole in our chest big enough to swallow us both._

_But then, justl like that, it was over._

_About a month and a half had passed when mom appeared at my bedroom door one morning, decked out in her now familiar uniform of a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of dad's old flannel pajama pants, much too long and far too big for her._

"_Enough of this," she said. "Let's get out of here."_

_I frowned, "What?"_

"_Pack your things, kid," mom said, sounding almost like herself again. "We're going on a trip."_

_By the time we stepped off the plane in Arizona, I could already see something in mom beggining to unfold. We spent a long weekend by the pool at the resort, our skin turning brown and our hair going blonder in the sun._

_At night, we watched movies and ate burgers and played miniature golf and even though I kept waiting for mom to crumble, to break down in pieces, it never happened. _

_And for a moment, I wondered if that was how our life would be like; a big slumber girls night out party. And for a moment I thought it wouldn't be so bad after all._

_But then we arrived back home and I realised the true purpuse of the trip. Dad had been there. _

_It was the little things that stunned me the most, not the obvious absences –the coats on the hooks by the back door, or the wool blanket that was usually draped over the couch in the next room –but the smaller pockets of space: the missing ceramic jar I'd made for him in pottery class, the famed photo of his parents that had sat on the hutch, the empty spot in the cabinet where his favourite mug had always been._

_It was like a scene of a crime, as if the house had been stripped for its parts, and my first thought was about my mom, until by one glance at her I realised she already knew about it._

* * *

Back to present, when the phone goes to voice mail, I sigh, listening to the familiar sound of mom's voice telling me to leave a message.

I find myself turning south, almost unconsciously, like it might somehow bring me closer to home, and as I do that, I notice the narrow point of a steeple just between the white facades of two buildings. Before the phone can beep in my ear I flip it shut again, leaving behind yet another wedding as I hurry in the direction of yet another church, knowing without knowing that this is the one.

When I get there, rounding a building and then weaveing between the cars parked on either side of the street, I'm pulled short by the scene before me, my whole body going numb at the sight.

There, on the small patch of lawn is a statue of Mary, the one Nick mentioned.

I remain rooted a safe distance away, my feet stuck to the sidewalk. Now that I'm here, this whole thing seems like the worst possible idea.

I look down at my dark skirt, high heels and then look back at the professionally styled people crowding the church backyard and my heart does a little skip when I catch the sight of no one other than Nick and my mouth go dry.

He's standing beside Denise, his arm resting lightly around her shoulders. I realise now, that Denise must be his mother, but then when I look closer at the scene in front of me I realise my fatal mistake.

It's not Nick at all. His shoulders are too broad and his hair too light. And when I hold up my hand over my eyes to sheild them from the slanted sun, I can see that this man is much older. Still, I'm startled when he looks over, his gaze meeting mine across the yard, and while it's pretty clear to me that this must be Nicks's brother, there's also something beautifully familiar in his eyes.

My stomach lurches and I stumble backward, ducking behind a row of headges like some sort of a criminal.

When I'm safely out of sight, hidden to one side of the church, I find myself just outside a wrought-iron fence woven with vines. I ciricle the perimeter, running a hand along the fence until I reach the gate.

Above me a bird cries out and I watch as it makes lazy circles in the crowded sky. The clouds are tick and laced in silver and it makes me think back to what Nick said on the plane, the word taking a shape in my mind: _cumulus_. The one cloud that seems both imaginary and true all at once.

When I lower my eyes again, there he is, across the garden, almost as if I dreamed him into being. He looks older in his suit, pale and solemn as he digs at the dirt with the toe of his shoe, his shoulders hunched and his head bent.

Watching him, I feel a surge of affection so strong that I nearly call out.

But before I can do anything, he turns around.

There's something different about him, something broken; like maybe for the first time ever he let his walls down. But his eyes hold me in the spot where I stand, and suddenly I'm torn between the instict to run away and the urge to cross the space between us.

For a long time we just stay there like that, as still as the statues in the garden. And when he gives me no sign, I swallow hard and come up with a decision.

But just as I turn to walk away, I hear him behind me, the word like the opening of some door, like and ending and a beginning, like a simple wish.

"Wait," he says, and so I do.

"_Now that the pain is done, there's no need to be afraid, we don't have time to waste, just tell me that you'll stay."_

* * *

AN: Hi :) I really wanted to get that one review so I could reach 100 and I planned to not post this until I do, but then it started snowing last night and when I woke up about an hour ago I realised my whole backyard is WHITE. Like there's a metar of snow covering the ground and I realised what better way to start a weekend, than updating a story I love! So enjoy this chapter, and the next one will be up soon.


	8. Then I Did

**Chapter 8**

"_I thought about calling you when I got off the plane, every time I see this city through the clouds I get that way, call me crazy for missing you like this, but I do."_

"What are you doing here?" Nick asks, staring at me as if he's not quite convinced that I'm actually here.

"I didn't realise back there," I say quietly, "On the plane."

He lowers his eyes.

"I didn't realise you were going through the same thing as I am right now," I say again, "I'm so sorry about that."

He nods at the stone bench a few feet away, the rough surface still damp from the earlier rain. We walk over together, heads bowed the sound of chattering in the beackground. Just as I'm about to sit, Nick motions me to wait, then whips his jacket off and lays it on the bench.

"Your skirt." He says for explanation, and I glance down at myself frowning at the black skirt as if I've never seen it before.

Something about the gesture cracks my heart further open, the idea that he'd think of something so plain at a time like this, after all we've been through; doesn't he know I could care less about the stupid dress?

That I would gladly curl up on the grass and make a bed out of the dirt for him?

Unable to find the words to refuse him, though, I sit down brushing my fingers against the soft folds of his jacket. Nick stands above me, rolling up first one sleeve then the other, his eyes focused somewhere beyond the garden.

"Do you need to go back?" I ask, and he shrugs leaving a few inches between us as he joins me on the bench.

"I probably should." He says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. But he doesn't move, and after a moment I wonder if the world really is this cruel? Why did God put us, both so damaged and broken, together on a plane? Why him out of all people on Earth?

I feel like I owe him an explanation for showing up here, but he doesn't ask for one so we both just remain like that, the silence stretching between us.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." He says eventually, but it's barely above a whisper and I hope it's because he feels the exact pain as I did when I watched my own father kissing the woman towards who I can never feel anything positive.

"No," I shake my head. "I'm the one who's sorry. I just assumed..."

We both fall quiet again.

There are so many messed up things in life; abuse and wars all of it leading to death. But here we are two reckless teenagers who tried to salvage our hearts on that plane ride and instead –at least for me- the heart became even more broken.

And you'd think because of all the bad things happening around us, yeah, you'd think having to attend your fathers second wedding wouldn't be on the top list of the most painful things.

But it is.

It's more painful than anything I could ever imagine. Because it tears your heart apart and it makes you ache for that closeness you once upon a time had, but it's gone just like your parents marriage; it's gone and it's like nothing will ever be the same.

After a moment, Nick sighs. "This is a little weird, right?"

"Which part?"

"I don't know," he says with a small smile playing at the ends of his lips. "You showing up at my father's wedding?"

"Oh," I say. "That."

He reaches down and yanks a few blades of grass from the ground, tearing at them absently. "Really though, it's the whole thing. I think maybe Michael Buble has it wrong. It's not all about love because this kind of thing—" he jerks his chin in the direction of the church, "this kind of thing is completely mad."

Beside him, I pick at the hem of my skirt, not entirely sure how to respond to that.

"I feel sorry for my mom, though." He says bitterly, letting the pieces of grass flutter back to the ground. "He is a complete arse, and now he even gets his happy ending."

I look up in surprise, but Nick seems relieved.

"I've been thinking that all morning." He says. "For the last eighteen years, actually." Nick looks at me and smiles. "You're sort of dangerous, you know?"

I stare at him. "Me?"

"Yeah," He says, sitting back. "I'm way too honest with you."

A small bird lands on the fountain in front of, and we both watch in awe as it pecks at the stone in vain. There's no water there, only a cracked layer of dirty, and after a moment the bird flies away, turning into a distant speck in the sky.

"How did it happen?" I ask quietly, but Nick doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at me.

After a moment he clears his throat. "How was the wedding?"

I gasp, turning my head to look at him. "You knew?"

Nick shurgs then gives me a look. "I didn't for sure, but the little signs you told me were enough to make me question." He crosses his arms over his chest. "When I saw you here, though, I knew because you looked sadder than on the plane."

I nod, absentmindedly feeling hatered for him. How could he keep quiet during the whole plane ride, knowing in his heart what was waiting for me once we land?

"How was it?" He asks quietly.

For a moment, I think about getting up and leaving. It would do him justice. But then I remember his promising eyes in the darkness of the plane, I remember how he looked in the small light in front of the bathroom...

And because of that I stay.

"It was fun." I say coldly.

"Come on," he says with a pleading look, and I sigh.

"Turns out, Demi is nice." I offer, folding my hands in my lap. "Annoyingly nice."

Nick grins, looking more like the version of himself I met on the plane. "What about your dad?"

"He seems really happy." I tell him, my voice thick. I can't bring myself to mention the baby, as if speaking of it would make it real. Instead, I remember the book and reach for the bag beside me. "I didn't return it."

Nick glances over, his eyes coming to rest at the cover.

"I read a little on the way over." I say. "It's actually kind of good."

He reaches for it, thumbing the pages as he'd done on the plane. "How'd you find me, anyway?"

"Someone was talking about a wedding in Paddington," I say, watching as Nick flinches slowly. "And I don't know. I just had a feeling."

He nods, gently shutting the book again. "My father has the first edition of this one." He says, his mouth twisting into a frown. Then he hands the book back to me, and I hug it to my chest; waiting for him to continue.

"I always thought it was only worth something to him for the wrong reasons." He finally says, his voice softer now. "I never saw him reading anything but legal briefs. But every once in a while he used to quote some passage." He laughs, a humorless sound. "It was so out of character, like a singing butcher or something."

"Maybe he's not what you think he is..."

Nick looks at me sharply. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"I don't want to talk about him." He says, his eyes flashing. He rubs at his forehead, then rakes a hand through his hair.

"You say you can be honest with me?" I ask Nick after a moment, adressing Nick's rounded shoulders and he twists to look at me. "Fine. Then talk to me. _Be honest."_

"About what?"

"Anything you want."

To my biggest surprise, he kisses me then. Not like the kiss on the airport, which was soft and sweet and full of farewell. This kiss is something more urgent, something more desperate; he presses his lips hard against mine and I close my eyes and lean in, kissing him back until just as suddenly, he breaks away again, and we sit starring at each other.

"Well that's not what I mean, just to be clear." I say and Nick gives me a crooked smile.

"You said to be honest. That's the most honest thing I've done all day."

"I meant about your dad." I say, though in spite of myself, I can feel the colour rising to my cheeks. "Maybe it'll help to talk about it. If you just—"

"What? Say that I miss my family? That I'm completely gutted? That I absolutely hate my father for destroying our family?" He stands abruply and, for a brief frigthening moment, I think he's going to walk away.

But instead, he begins pacing back and forth in the front of the bench, tall and lean and handsome in his shirt. He pauses, spinning to face me, and I can see the anger scrawled across his face.

"Look, today? This week? Everything about it had been fake. You think your dad is the only one who fucked up? At least your dad had the guts to confess to you mom. And he had the guts to stick around and actually be your dad. And I get that this whole shit situation is getting to you because you want your family back just like I want mine, but from what it sounds like, he's happy and you mum's happy and so you're all better off in the end anyway."

_All except me_, I think but I remain quiet. Nick begins to walk again, and my eyes follow his progress like a game of tennis, back and forth and back and forth.

"You wanna hear about _my_ dad?" He shakes his head. "He's been cheating on mom for years. You dad had one affair, and that turned into love, right? Mine had about dozen affairs, maybe more but the worst part is we all knew. And nobody talked about it. I think we all thought that being quietly miserable is better than to risk our family to be destroyed. But we knew," he says, his shoulders sagging. "We knew."

"Nick," I say, but he shakes his head again.

"So no," he says with a little shurg. "I don't want to talk about my dad. He is a bloody jerk who knocked up my gouverness and then divorced my mother so he could marry the stupid whore and now he's done being my father and I'm done pretending everything is fine." His hands are balled into fists at his sides, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line. "Is that honest enough for you?"

"Nick," I say again, setting aside the book and rising to my feet.

"It's fine," he says. "I'm fine."

From a distance comes the sound of his name being called, and a moment later a girl with dark hair and even darker sunglasses appears at the gate. She's not much older than me, but there's confidence to her, a sense of ease that makes me feel immediately disheveled by comparison.

The girl stops in her track when she sees us, clearly surprised.

"It's almost time, Nicky." She says, pushing her sunglasses up her head. "Your mother says you should go back so we can go to the house."

Nick's eyes are still on mine. "One minute." He says without looking away, and the girl hesitates, like she might be about to say something more, but then turns around again with a small shrug.

When she's gone, I force myself to meet Nick's eyes again. Something about the girl's arrival has broken the spell of the garden and now I'm keenly aware of the voices beyond the hedge, of the car doors slamming, of a dog barking in the distance.

Still, he doesn't move.

"I'm sorry." I say softly. "I shouldn't have come."

"No," Nick says and I blink at him, straining to hear the words inside that word; everything behind it: _Don't go _or _please just stay with me _or _I'm sorry, too_. But all he says is: "It's okay."

I shift from one foot to the other, my heels sinking into the soft dirt. "I should go." I say, but my eyes say _I'm trying here_, and my hands trembling in an effort not to reach out for his say _Please_.

"Right," he says. "Me too."

Neither of us moves, and I realise I'm holding my breath.

_Ask me to stay._

"Good to see you again," he says stiffly and to my dismay, he holds out a hand. I take it gingerly and we hover there like that, halfway between a grip and a shake, our knotted palms swaying between us until Nick finally lets go.

"Good luck," I say, willing my eyes not to tear up.

"Thanks," he says with a nod. He reaches for his jacket and slings it over his shoulder without bothering to brush it off. As he turns to cross the garden, my stomach churns.

I close my eyes against the flood of words that never reached me, all those things left unsaid.

And when I open my eyes again, he's gone.

"_But you were wrong, love was what I wanted all along and now you're gone."_

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for any grammar mistakes! Thank you for all your reviews, I try to reply to single one, but the Guest ones I can't so for all of you out there who don't have an account, THANK YOU! :D Anyway, I'm wearing a Beatles shirt right now. Haha. I'm sorry this is so short but I'm trying to prolong the story because it's gonna end soon you guys...So review like you did so far and you'll be getting the chapters sooner. :)


	9. When You Need Me

**Chapter 9**

"_When you need me call my name 'cause without you my life just wouldn't be the same, if you want me come sunny skies or rain when you need me just call my name."_

My purse is still on the bench, and as I move to pick it up I find myself sinking down onto the damp stone, folding wearily like the survivor of some great storm.

I shouldn't have come. That much is clear now.

The sun is dipping lower into the sky, and though there is a place when I have to be right now, whatever momentum was propelling me before now seems to have disappeared entirely.

I reach beside me for the copy of _The Great Gatsby_ and grab it between my hands.

A few minutes later, when I make my way back past the church, I can see Denise and Nick huddled together in the open doorway. Nick's back is to me, his jacket still resting on his shoulder and the girl, the one who discovered them, stands beside him.

There's something protective about the way her hand rests on his elbow, and the sight of it alone makes me walk a bit faster, my cheeks reddening without really knowing why.

I hurry past the pair of them, past the statue of Mary, past the church and the steeple and the row of black sedans lined up and ready to lead them all to the reception.

At the last moment, almost as an afterthought, I place the book on the hood of the car in front. And then, before anyone can stop me, I take off down the road again.

* * *

To say my trip back was a complete blur would be an understatement of the year. When I finally step out into the sunlight again at the Kensington stop, I'm struck by the uncomfortable sensation of having skipped through time like a stone.

Apparently shock –or whatever the shit I'm feeling right now- is among the more effective cures for claustrophobia. I've just traveled unseeingly for half an hour, underground the whole time and not once did I have to force my mind elsewhere.

The location was beside the point; my head was already in the clouds.

I realise I've left the wedding invitation inside the book, and though I know the hotel is near the church and therefore somewhere in the neighborhood, I can't for the life of me remember the name of it.

But when I flip open my phone to call my dad, I notice there's a message and even before punching in my password, I know it must be from mom.

I don't even bother listening to it, instead I dial her number right away, not wanting to risk missing her again.

But I do.

Once more it goes to voice mail and I almost lose it. Why is my mother always away when I need her?

All I want is to talk to mom, to tell her about dad and the baby, about Nick and how this whole trip turned out to be a huge mistake. All I want to do right now, is pretend that the last couple of hours never happened.

There's a lump in my throat as big as a stone when I think of the way Nick left me there in the garden, the way those eyes of his –the same ones that seemed completely intrigued by me on the plane- had been focused on the ground instead.

And that girl. I'm absolutely sure it was his ex-girlfriend –the casual way she'd sought him out, the comforting hand on his arm. The only part I'm not certain of is the _ex_ part.

There was something possessive about the way she looked at him; like she was laying a claim to him even from distance.

All morning I've been carrying with me the memory of the previous night, the thought of Nick acting like a shield against the day, but now it's all been ruined. Even the memory of that last kiss isn't enough to comfort me.

Because the truth is I'm probably never going to see him again, and the way we pareted is enough to make me want to curl in a ball and cry my eyes out.

The phone begins to ring in my hand and I look down to see my dad's number on the screen. "Where in the world _are_ you?" He ask when I pick up, I look left then right then left again down the street.

"I'll be there soon." I say, not entirely sure where _there_ is.

"Where have you been?" He asks, and the way his voice is so tight; I can tell he's more than furious. For the millionth time today I wish I could just go home, but I still have the stupid reception to go through, and dance with my angry father and suffer through cake and then sleep the whole night until I can even think about going back home.

After all, I did agree to spend the full weekend here.

And then when the time for me to go home does arrive, I'll have to spend seven hours traveling back across the Atlantic beside someone who will not draw me a duck on a napkin. Who will not steal me a small bottle of whiskey, who will not try to kiss me by the bathrooms.

"I had to go see a friend." I try to explain, but dad grunts. I try not to think about how Nick is not really my friend at all.

"What's next? Off to see one of your besties in Milano?"

"Dad."

He sighs. "Your timing could have been better, Miley."

"I know."

"I was worried." He admits, and I can hear the harshness of his voice beginning to vanish. Somehow, I had been so focused on getting to Nick that I hadn't really thought that dad might be concerned. Angry; absolutely yes, but worried?

It's been a long time since he played the role of a parent, and besides, he's in the middle of his own wedding. But now I can see how me leaving might have affected him.

"I wasn't thinking," I say. "I'm really sorry,"

"How long till you get here?"

"Not long." I say. "Not long at all."

He sighs but this time I can hear the smile behind it. "Good."

"But dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you remind me where I'm going, again?"

Exactly ten minutes later, with the help of his directions, I find myself in the lobby of Kensington Palace Hotel, a sprawling mansion that seems so out of place inbetween the crowded busy city streets, like it was plucked from a country estate and dropped at random here in London. The floors are made of black-and-white floors, and there's great curving staircase with brass railings that stretches up beyond my sight.

When I catch the sight of myself in one of the mirrors hanging behind the front desk, I quickly lower my eyes again.

Demi's bridesmaids will be disappointed when they see how their hard work from earlier had been ruined; my dress is wrinkled and it looks like I've been carrying it in my purse the whole day, and my hair is now coming undone.

The man behind the desk finishes a phone call, replacing the reciever with a practiced flick of his wrist and then turns to me.

"May I help you, Miss?"

"I'm looking for the Stewart wedding." I say, and he glances down at the desk.

"I'm afraid that it hasn't yet begun." He tells me with a clipped accent. "It will be held in the ballroom at six o'clock sharp."

"Right," I say, "But I'm actually waiting for the groom."

"Ah, so you're here to see him. Of course," He says, ringing up the the room and murmuring into the phone before setting it down again and giving me a crisp nod. "Suite two forty-eight. They're all expecting you."

"I bet they are." I mutter, heading towards the elevators.

When I knock on the door to the suite, I'm so busy preparing myself for dad's fiasco that I'm more than surprised to find the Blondie on the other side insead.

"What happened to you?!" She yells, her eyes traveling all the way down to my shoes before snipping back up again. "Did you run a marathon or something?"

"It's hot outside." I explain, glancing down at my dress helplessly.

Blondie takes a sip of champagne from a glass that has lipstick marks. Behind her, I can see about a dozen people sitting on dark green couches, a tray of colorful vegetables on the table in front of them and several bottles of champagne on ice. There's soft music playing from the speakers, something instrumental that makes me think of Titanic, but above that I can ever hear some voices around the corner.

"I suppose we'll probably need to sort you out again before the reception." Blondie says with a sigh, and she steps off ushering me inside. "We don't have much time before recpetion."

"What time does it start again?" I can't help but to grin when Blondie rolls her eyes, not even bothering to give me a response.

I head straight for the small sitting room off to the side which links the bedroom to the rest of the suite. Inside, I find my father and a few other people crowded around a laptop computer. Demi is sitted before it, her wedding dress pooled all around her.

For a moment I consider ducking back out again. I don't want to see photos of her father and Demi at the top of the Eiffel Tower, or making funny faces on a train, or feeding the ducks at the pond somewhere in London.

I don't need a reminder that I wasn't there for it. I don't need pictues to know that I'm not apart of his life anymore.

But he's the first to notice me standing there, and my dad (even though I'm prepared for all kinds of reactins; anger, annoyance, relief), my dad looks at me with something laid bare behind his eyes; like a recognition, like an apology.

And right there, right then, I wish for things to be different. Not in the same way that I've been wishing for months now, not a bitter twisted sort of a wish but the kind of wish that you make with your whole heart.

I'm just about to open my mouth to say something, but before I can get the words to shape, Demi beats me to it.

"You're here!" she exclaims. "We were so worried!"

Demi is so loud that everyone in the sitting room is looking at me now, and the floor-patterned walls seem much too close.

"Were you off exploring?" Demi asks with such genuine enthusiasm that it twists my heart again. "Did you have fun?"

This time, when I glance in dad's direction, something in the look my face is enough to make him stand from where he's been peched on the arm of Demi's chair.

"You okay, kiddo?" He asks, his head tilted to the side.

All I mean to do is shake my head, honestly. But to my surprise, I feel my face begin to crumple and the first tears prick the backs of my eyes as a sob rises in my throat.

It's not Demi, or the others in the room. For once, it's not even my dad. It's the whole day behind me, the whole strange but surprising day. Never has any period of time seemed so unending.

And though I know it's nothing but colection of minutes, all of them strung together like bananas on a tree, I can see now how easily those minutes become hours, how quickly the months might have turned to years in the just the same way and how close I'd come to losing something so important in the movement of time.

"Miley?" Dad says, setting his glass down as he takes a step in my direction. "What happened?"

I'm crying, full out bawling my eyes out, propped by the doorframe.

"Hey," Dad says when he's by my side, a strong hand on my shoulder.

"Sorry." I mumble. "It's just been a really, really long day."

"Right," My dad says. "Right," he says agin. "It's time for us to talk then."

* * *

Even if dad still lived at our house back in New Jersey, even if I still sat across from him during dinner each night and called good morning before rushing to school, even then this would still fall under mom's job description.

Absentee father or not, sitting with me as I cry over a boy is absolutely and unquivocally Mom's Territory.

Yet here I am with him, the whole story pouring out of my mouth like some long-held secret. He's pulled a chair up beside the bed and is straddling on the seat back, and I am grateful to see that for once he's not wearing that professional look of his, the one where he tips his head to the side and his eyes go sort of flat.

No, the way he's looking at me now is something deeper than that. It's the way he looked at me when I scraped my knee as a kid, the time I crashed my bike against the side of the house and came running into the house bleading. And to be honest, something about that look makes me feel better.

Hugging one of too many decorative pillows from the fancy bed, I tell him about meeting Nick at the airport and the way he switched seats on the flight. I tell him how Nick helped me with my claustrophobia, distracting me with silly questions, saving me from myself in the same way dad once had.

There's a whole wedding party just outside the door, a new bride and bottles of champagne, and there's a schedule to keep, an order of the day. But as he sits here listening, it's as if he has nowhere else to go. It's as if nothing else is more important than this; than _me_.

So I keep talking and I tell him about the conversations I had with Nick, about the long hours when there was nothing to do but talk, as we huddled together over the endless ocean. I tell him about the movie with the ducks and how I'd stupidly assumed he was just going to his family reunion. I even tell him about the whiskey.

But I don't tell him about the kiss at customs.

By the time I get to the part about losing him at the airport, I'm talking so fast that I'm tripping over the words. And when I get to the part about the wedding and the church, my dad places his warm palm over mine.

"I should have told you," I say, then wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "Actually, I shouldn't have gone there at all."

Dad doesn't say anything, and I'm really grateful for that. I'm not exactly sure on how to put the next part into words, the look in Nick's eyes, so dark and solemn, like the gathering of a distant storm. Just beyond the door there's a burst of laughter, followed by clapping.

I take a deep breath.

"I was trying to help," I say softly, but that's not entirely true. "I wanted to see him again."

"That's sweet." Dad says and I shake my head.

"It's not. I mean, I only knew him for a few hours. It's ridicilous. It makes no sense!"

Dad smiles then, and reaches up to straighten his crooked bow tie. "That's the way these things are, kiddo." He says. "Love isn't supposed to make sense. It's completely illogical."

I lift my chin.

"What?"

"Nothing," I say, "It's just that mom said the exact same thing."

"About Nick?"

"No, just in general."

"She's smart, your mom." He says and the way he says it, without a trace of irony, without one ounce of self-awareness-makes me say one thing I've spent more than enough time trying not to say aloud.

"Then why did you leave her?"

Dad's mouth fall open and he leans back as if the words were meant to be physical. "Miley," he begins, his voice low.

"Never mind, " I say. "Forget I even said something."

In one motion he's on his feet, and I think maybe he's about to leave the room, but instead, he sits beside me. I rearrange myself so that we're side by side, so we don't have to look at each other.

"I still love your mom very much." He says quietly, and I'm about to interrupt him but he pushes ahead before I have a chance. "It's different now, obviously. And there's a lot of guilt in there too. But she still means a lot to me. You have to know that, sweetie."

"Then how could you—"

"Leave?"

I nod.

"I had to." He says simply. "But it didn't mean I was leaving _you_."

"You moved to _England_."

"I know," he sighs. "But it wasn't about you."

"Right." I spit out, feeling that flame of anger starting to rise. "It was about _you_."

I want him to argue, to fight back, to play the part of the guy having a midlife crisis and who was too selfish to think about other people, and I want him to play the part I had build up in my head for all these months. But instead, he just sits there with his head hanging low, his hands clasped in his lap, looking utterly defeated.

"I fell in love." He says helplessly. His bow tie has fallen to one side again, and I'm reminded that it is after all his wedding day. He rubs his swollen eyes and looks at the door absently.

"I don't expect you to understand. I know I screwed up, I know I'm the world's worst father. I know, I know, I know. Trust me, I know."

I remain silent because what is really there to say? Soon, he'll have a new baby, a chance to do it all over again. This time, he can be there.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, Miley." He bites his bottom lip. "I know we can't go back. But I'd like to start over. If you're willing, that is." My dad looks over at me. "I know everything is quite different, and that it will take some time, but I'd really like you to be a part of my new life."

I glance down at my dress. "I liked our old life just fine," I say with a frown.

"I know. But I need you now, too."

"So does mom."

"I know."

"I just wish..."

"What?"

"That you'd stayed."

"I know." He says for the millionth time. I wait for him to battle me on this to tell me that we're all better off this way just like mom always says.

But he doesn't.

It's hard to imagine what would life look like if my dad just came home like he was supposed to that Christmas and left Demi behind. Would things have been better that way? Or would we just become like Nick's family, the wieght of our unhappiness heavy as a blanket over each of us, stifling and oppressive and so very silent?

Are we really better off this way?

It's impossible to know.

But what I do know is this: He is happy now. I can see it all over his face, even now as I sit hunched on the edge of the bed like something broken. Even now, despite everything there is a light in his eyes that refuses to go out. It's the same light I see in my mom and her boyfriend.

It's the same light I thought I saw in Nick on the plane.

"Dad?" I call, "I'm glad you're happy."

He's unable to hide to surprise. "You are?"

"Of course."

We're quiet for a moment, but before dad can start speaking again, there's a knock on the door, and we both look over.

"Come in." Dad says, and Blondie appears. I'm amused to see that she's swaying ever so slightly in her heels, an empty bottle of champagne in one hand.

"Thirty-minute warning." She announces, waving her watch in our direction.

Dad stands up, giving me a little pat on the shoulder. "I think we're all sorted out here, yeah?"

I nod silently and rise to follow him out, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, puffy eyes and all.

"I think I might need a little—"

"Agreed!" Blondie says, taking me by the arm.

Dad turns by the door, giving Blondie a look. "Don't go hard on her, Taylor." Blondie—her names it Taylor! I finally know! –turns around and gives me a roll of her blue eyes.

She motions me to follow her to the bathroom, where all the other women are already happily blabbing away their tongues. Once we're all huddled close around the mirror, and everyone's got some sort of tool; a hairbrush or a comb, a mascara or a curling iron –That's when Taylor starts the round of questioning.

"So what were the tears about, then?"

I would like to shake my head at that question, but I'm afraid to move; there are too many people poking and prodding me.

"Nothing, " I say stiffly as a red head hesitates in front of me, a tube of lipstick at the ready.

"Your dad?"

"No."

"Must be, though." Says a brunette with the eye-shadow palette. "Watching him get married again."

"Yeah," Taylor says from wher she's stopped on the floor. "But those weren't family tears."

Red Head is now ranking her fingers through my hair. "What were they, then?"

"Those were boy tears." Taylor says with a smile.

Read Head giggles excitedly, "I love it already." She says. "Tell us all about him."

I can feel myself blushing furiously. "No, it's nothing like that." I say. "I swear."

They all exchange glances, and Brunette laughs. "Who's the lucky bloke?"

"Nobody." I say again. "Really."

"I don't believe you for one second." Taylor says then leans down so that her face is even with mine in the mirror. "But I will say this: once we're through here, if that boy comes within ten feet of you tonight; he won't stand a chance."

"Don't worry," I say with a sigh. "He won't."

"_And when this dirty world has been cold to you, I got two strong arms waitin' to hold you, and when those mean days come along, we'll stand together and we'll take 'em on."_

* * *

**A/N: **Hello lovelies, a quick update from meeeh. I'm so sad that this story will probably be over in like two or three chapters. D: It feels like I've been writing it for a long time when it's been like a month, lol. Anyway, just to give you heads up, I'd like to continue writing stories based on a book, so if you could include a book title in your review that'd really help me ( I already want to do one with friends with benefits kind of thing, so tell me if you'd like to read that). P.S, thank you for all the reviews!


	10. Baby, I'm back

**Chapter 10**

"_Said everything that you want me to I'll do it, tell me what the word is already."_

"You look great." Demi says the moment I leave the bathroom with my own fairy godmothers trailing hot on my heels.

"_You_ look great," I smile at her because it's true.

"Yes, but _I_ haven't been traveling since yesterday," She says, "You must be completely knackered."

I feel a twang in my chest at the word, which reminds me so sharply of Nick.

"I _am_ knackered." I say with a weary smile. "But it's been worth the trip."

Demi's eyes are bright. "I'm glad o hear that. Hopefully it will be first of many..."

"Oh." I say, "I don't know."

"You must come!" Demi says, crossing back into the sitting room, where she grabs the computer again and carries it out like a tray of appetisers. "We'd so love to have you. And we've just renovated. I was showing everyone the photos earlier."

"Honey, is now really the—" Dad starts but Demi cuts him off.

"Oh, it'll only take a minute," she says smiling at me. We stand side by side at the bar, waiting for the images to load. "Here's the dining room," Demi says as the first picture pops up. "It looks out over the west garden."

I lean in to look closer, trying to spot any remains of my father's previous life, his coffee mug or his rain coat or the old pair of slippers he refused to throw out. Demi flips from one photo to the next and my mind races to catch up as I try to picture dad and Demi in these rooms, eating or talking or just leaning up an umbrella against the wall in the entryway.

"And look, here's the guest room, or the spare bedroom whatever you want to call it." Demi says, glancing at dad who's leaning against her chair. "Your room, for whenever you come to see us."

* * *

Later, toward the end of the cocktail hour, the doors to the ballroom are thrown open, and I pause just inside, my eyes wide open. Everything is silver and white with just lavender flowers arranged in oversized glass vases on the tables.

There are ribbons on the backs of the chairs, and a four-tiered cake topped with a tiny bride and groom. Even the photographer, who has just walked in behind me, lowers her camera to look around with an air of approval.

There's a string quartet playing softly off to one side, and the waiters in bow ties and tails seem almost to glide through the room with their trays of champagne. Tom winks at me when he catches me taking a glass.

"Not too many," he says and I laugh.

"Don't worry, my dad will be down to tell me the same thing soon enough."

Dad and Demi are still upstairs, waiting to make their grand entrance, and I have spent an entire cocktail hour answering questions and nothing but small talk. Everyone seems to have a story about America, how they're dying to see the Empire State Building (do I go there often?), or planning a big trip to the Grand Canyon (can I recommend things to do there?), or have a cousin who just moved to Portland (do I maybe know him?)

An older woman who turns out to be the head of my dad's department at his job, asks about my flight over.

"I missed it, actually." I tell her. "By four minutes. But I caught the next one."

"What a bad luck." She says, running a hand over her slightly wrinkled skirt. "Must have been quite an ordeal."

I smile softly. "It wasn't so bad."

When it's almost time to sit down for dinner, I search the name cards to find out where I'd been placed.

"Don't worry," Taylor says, stepping up beside me. "You're not at the children's table or anything."

"Well, that's a relief." I say. "So where am I?"

Taylor gives the table a scan, then hands over her card. "At the cool kids' table." She says with a grin, "With me. And the bride and groom, of course."

"Lucky me."

"So, are you feeling any better about.."

I raise my eyebrows.

"Your dad and Demi, the whole wedding thing?"

"Ah," I sigh in relief. "I am, actually." I'm glad Taylor finally realised that Nick is just a guy I met on the plane, not someone-

Never mind.

"Good," she says, "Because I'll expect you to come back over when Tom and I get married."

"Tom?" I ask, staring at her. I try unsuccessfully to recall if I've seen them even speak to each other during the whole night. "You guys are engaged?"

"Not yet," Taylor says as she starts walking again, "But don't look so gobsmacked. I've got a good feeling about it."

I fall into a step beside me. "That's it? A good feeling?"

"That's it." She nods. "I think it's meant to be."

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way," I say with a frown, but Taylor only smiles.

"What if it does?"

Inside the ballroom, the guests have started to take their seats, tucking purses under chairs and admiring the floral arrangements. As we slip into our places, I notice Taylor smiling at Tom across the table, and he gazes back at her for a beat too long before ducking his head again.

Finally, when the motion of the room has slowed, the bad leader adjusts the mike and clears his throat.

"Ladies and gentleman," he says, and already the rest of the people at my table –Demi's parents, and her aunt Savannah, plus Tom and Violet –are turning toward the entrance of the room. "I'm pleased to be the first to present you all Mr. and Mrs. Stewart!"

A great cheer goes up and there are a series of bright flashes as everyone attempts to capture the moment on camera. I swivel in my seat and rest my chin on the back of the chair as dad and Demi appear in the doorway, their hands clasped together, both of them smiling like movie stars even like royalty, like the little couple on top of the cake.

_Mr. and Mrs. Billy Stewart,_ I think and my eyes bright up as I watch my dad raise his arm so that Demi can do a little twirl, her dress cluttering at the bottom. The song is unfamiliar, something just lively enough for them to attempt a little footwork once they've made it to the wooden dance floor of the centre of the room, but nothing too fancy.

I wonder what significance it might have for them. Was it playing the day they met? The first time they kissed? The day my dad told Demi he decided to stay in England for good?

The whole place is transfixed by the couple on the floor, the way they lean into each other laughing each time they pull apart again, yet they might as well be dancing in an empty room.

It's as if nobody is watching them at all; there is something utterly beautiful in the way they look at each other. Demi smiles into dad's shoulder, pressing her soft face close, and he readjusts his hand on hers, twining their fingers together.

Everything about them seems to fit, and they're practically incandescent beneath the gold-tinged lighting, whirling and gliding beneath the gaze of an entire room.

When the song comes to an end everyone claps and the bandleader calls for the rest of the wedding party to join them on the dance floor. Demi's parents rise from their seats, her aunt is joined by a man from the next table and I'm surprised to see Tom giving a hand to Taylor, who grins back as they walk off together.

One by one they make their way to the centre of the room, until the dance floor is dotted by lavender dresses and the bride and groom are lost in the middle of it. I sit alone at the table, mostly relieved not to be out there but unable to ignore the small stab of loneliness that settles over me.

I look down on my lap, and a minute later when I look up, my dad is standing beside me, a hand outstretched.

"Where's your wife?" I ask.

"I pawned her off."

"Already?"

He grins and grabs my hand. "Ready to cut a rug?"

"I'm not really—" I try to say as dad drags me toward the middle of the room, where Demi –who is now dancing with her father –flashes us a smile.

Nearby, Tom is doing some sort of a jig with Taylor, whose head is thrown back in laughter.

"My dear," Dad says, offering a hand which I take.

He spins us for a few jokey circles before slowing down again, and we move in awkward rotations, our steps boxy and ill-timed.

"Sorry," he says when he steps on my toe for the second time. "Dancing has never really been my kind of thing."

"You looked pretty good with Demi."

"It's all her," he says with a smile. "She makes me look better than I am."

We're both quiet for a few beats and my eyes rove around the room. "This is nice," I say.

"Everything looks beautiful, right?" Dad smiles.

I nod, "Dad?"

"Yeah kiddo?"

"I finally started _The Great Gatsby_."

His whole face brightens. "And?"

"Not bad."

"Good enough to finish?" he asks, and I picture the place where I left the book, on the hood of the black car in front of Nick's church.

"Maybe." I silently promise him.

"You know, Demi is thrilled about you coming over some time." He says quietly with his head bent low. "I hope you'll actually consider it. I was thinking maybe at the end of summer, before school starts up again. We've got this spare bedroom that we could make yours. Maybe you could even bring some of your things and leave them here, so that it would seem more like a real room, and—"

"What about the baby?"

Dad drops his arms to his sides and takes a step backward, starring at me with a look of such surprise that all of a sudden I'm not nearly as certain about what I heard earlier.

The song ends but before the last notes have trailed out over the ballroom, the band rolls straight into the next one, something loud and full of tempo.

All around us the guests begin to dance, twisting and laughing and hopping around with no particular regard for rhythm. And in the midst of all that, me and dad stand still.

"What baby, Miley?" he asks, his words measured as if speaking to a child.

I glance around wildly, a few yards away Demi is peering around Tom, clearly wondering why we're just standing there.

"I heard something back at the house," I start to explain, "Demi said something, and i thought—"

"To you?"

"What?"

"She said something to you?"

"No, to the hairdresser. Or makeup artist. Somebody. I just overheard."

His face looses up visibly, the lines around his mouth going slack.

"Look, Dad." I say. "It's okay. I don't mind."

"Miley—"

"No, it's fine. I mean, I wouldn't expect you to call and tell me. Whatever, it's not like we talk. But I just wanted to say that I'd like to be there."

He'd been about to say something, but now he stops and stares at me.

"I don't want to miss out anymore," I say in a rush. "I don't want the new baby to grow up thinking of me like some long-lost second cousin. Someone you never see, and then instead of going shopping together or asking advice or even fighting, you end up having nothing to say to each other, not really, not the way brothers and sisters do. And so I want to be there."

"You do," Dad says but it's not even a question. It's a sentence, a positive sentence.

"I do."

The song changes again, scaling back into something slower, and the people around us start drifting toward their tables, where the salads have all been served. Demi reaches out and gives dad's arm a little squeeze as she walks by.

"And Demi's not so bad, either." I admit, once she's passed.

Dad looks amused for a second, "I'm glad you feel that way."

We're alone now on the dance floor, just standing there while the rest of the room looks on. I hear the clinking of glasses and the chatter of silverware as people begin to eat, but I'm still keenly aware that all the attention is still focused on them.

After a moment, dad lifts his shoulders. "I don't know what to say."

A new thought strikes to me now, something that hasn't occurred to me before. I say it slowly, my heart banging around my chest. "You don't want me to be apart of it."

Dad shakes his head and takes a small step closer, putting his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. "Of course I want that." He says. "There is nothing I'd like more. But Miles?"

I raise my eyes to meet his,

"There is no baby."

"What?"

"There will be," he says almost shyly. "Someday. At least we hope so. Demi's worried because there's some family history of trouble with there things and she's not as young as, well, your mom was. But she wants it badly, and the truth is, so do I. So we're hoping for the best."

"But Demi said—"

"It's just the way she is," he tells me. "She's one of those people who talk a lot about something when they really want it to be true. It's almost like she tries to will it into being."

I can't help myself; I make a face. "How's that working out for her?"

Dad grins and waves a hand at the room. "Well, she used to talk about me a lot. And now look at us."

"I'm guessing that was more you than the universe."

"True," he says ruefully. "But either way, whenever we do have a baby, I promise you with all my heart that you'll be the first to know."

"Really?"

"Of course. Miley, come on."

"I just figured since you've met so many new people, and..."

"Come on, kiddo," he says again, this time his face breaks into a smile. "You're still the most important thing in my life. And besides, who else can I ask to babysit and change nappies?"

"Diapers," I say, rolling my eyes, "They're called diapers, dad."

He laughs. "You can call them whatever you want as long as you'll be there to help me change them when the time comes."

"I will," I say, surprised to find my voice a little wobbly. "I'll be there."

For a second, I wonder what I'm supposed to do next. It feels weird to just hug him, to fling myself into his arms the way I did when I was a kid.

Thankfully, my dad seems to understand me so well because he's the first to move, slinging an arm around my shoulders to steer me back toward our table. Tucked beside him like that, in the same way I've been a thousand times before –walking to the car together after a soccer game, or leaving the Girl Scouts' annual father-daughter dance –I realise that even though everything else is pretty much different, even though there's still an ocean between us, nothing really important has changed at all.

He's still my dad. The rest is just geography.

* * *

During dinner, Tom and Taylor both make their toasts –his punctuated by laughter, hers by tears –and I watch Demi and dad as they listen, their eyes shining.

Later, the cake has been cut and Demi has managed to duck dad's attempts to get even for the white frosting she smeared on his nose, there's more dancing. By the time coffee is served they're both wedged beside me with cheeks flushed.

Once the coffee magically makes it's way to the table, I push back my chair and lean forward to pick up my purse. "I think I might go get some fresh air," I announce.

"Are you feeling all right?" Demi asks, and Tom winks at me from over the tip of his champagne glass, as if he'd warned me not to drink too much.

"I'm fine," I say quickly, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Dad leans back in his chair with a knowing smile, "Say hello to your mom for me."

"What?"

He nods at the purse, "Tell her I said hi."

I grin sheepishly, surprised to have been figured out so easily.

"Yup, I've still got it," he says, "The parental sixth sense."

A minute later, I make my way through the revolving doors and take a deep breath once I steep outside, welcoming the cool air and the insistent breeze.

There are stone steps that span the length of the hotel, ridiculously grand, like the entrance of a museum, and I move off to the side and find a place to sit down. The moment I do, I realise my head is pounding and my feet are throbbing.

Everything about me feels heavy, and once again I try to remember the last time I slept. When I squint at my watch, attempting to calculate what time it is back home, and how long I've been awake, the numbers blur in my head and refuse to cooperate.

There's another message from mom on my phone, and my heart leaps at the sight of it. It feels like we've been apart for much longer than a day, and though I have no idea what time it is at home, I dial and close my eyes as I listen to the hollow sound of ringing.

"_There_ you are." Mom says when she picks up. "That was some game of phone tag."

"Mom," I mumble, resting my forehead in my hand. "_Seriously_."

"I've been dying to talk to you," she says. "How are you? What time is it there? How's it all going?"

I take a deep breath and then wipe my nose. "Mom, it's surprisingly...okay."

Mom lets out a low whistle. "Really? I would've bet money that you'd be calling me demanding to come home on an earlier flight."

"Me too," I say, "But it's not so bad."

"Tell me everything."

"I will." I say, stiffing a yawn, "But it's been a really long day."

"I bet. So just tell me this for now: How's the dress?"

"Mine or Demi's?"

"Wow," mom says, laughing. "So she's graduated from _that British_ woman to just _Demi_, huh?"

I smile. "Guess so. She's actually sort of nice. And the dress it pretty."

"Have you and your dad been getting along?"

"It was touch-and-go earlier, but now we're fine. Maybe even good."

"Why, what happened earlier?"

"It's another long story. I sort of ducked out for a while."

"You left?"

"I had to."

"I bet your father loved that. Where'd you go?"

I close my eyes and think of what dad said about Demi earlier, about how she talks about the things that she hopes might come true.

"I met this guy on the plane."

Mom laughs. "Now we're talking."

"I went to go find him, but it was sort of a disaster and now I'll never see him again."

There's silence on the other end and then mom's voice comes back a bit softer. "You never know," she says. "Look at me and Nathan. Look what a hard time i've given him. But no matter how many times I push him away, he always comes back around again. And I wouldn't want it any other way."

"This is a little bit different."

"Well, I can't wait to hear all about it when you get back."

"Which is on Monday."

"Right." She says, "Nathan and I will meet you at the baggage claim."

"Like a lost sock."

"Oh honey," mom jokes, "You're more like a whole suitcase. And you're not lost."

My voice is very small. "What if I am?"

"Then it's just a matter of time before you get found."

The phone beeps twice, and I hold it away from my ear for a moment. "I'm about to run out of batteries." I say when I bring it back.

"You or your phone?"

"Both. I love you, mom." I say,

"I love you too," my mom whispers and then almost as if we had planned it, the line goes dead. I sit there for another minute or so, and then I lower my phone and stare out at the row of stone houses across the road.

I watch as the light goes on in one of the upstairs window. I can see a silhouette of a man tucking his son into bed, pulling up the covers and then leaning to kiss him on the forehead. I think of Nick's story, and I wonder if Nick had this kind of a shelter when he was younger.

Was his father different back then?

I'm still watching the now darkened window, gazing at the little house in a row of many, past the street lamps and the rain-dusted mailboxes, past the horseshoe of a driveway leading up to the hotel, when my own sort of ghost appears.

I'm surprised to see him as he must have been when I showed up at the church earlier, and something about his sudden and unexpected arrival throws me off-balance, sets my stomach churning, takes what little composure I have left and shatters it completely.

He approaches slowly, his dark suit nearly lost to the surrounding shadows until he steps into the pool of light cast by the hotel lanterns.

"Hi," he says when he's close enough, and for the second time this evening, I begin to cry.

"_Don't look no farther! Baby I'm back, I'm here to cater to you cause I'll be your lover, I'll be your best friend, tell me what I gotta do."_

* * *

__**A/N: A quick update from me to celebrate a Friday! :D Two days of rest, then five days of school and I'm free. You guys, I'm planning to read 227362516 books this Christmas :) Any ideas which ones I should read? P.S, by the positive feedback I got, I'm here announcing that I'll be writing a brand new story after I finish Once Upon A Magazine and it will be about two high schoolers, ****strictly Niley, who become kind of friends with benefits. (Again, if you don't want to read that, just pm me or write in in a review, and please if you know a book you'd like me to make a story based upon, please write it in your review!) Thank you for all the reviews, you are all amazing :)**


	11. Perfect For Me

**Chapter 11**

"_It's not always easy, but somehow love stays strong, if I can make you happy then this is where I belong."_

Neither one of us speaks at first.

Nick sits a few inches away, looking straight ahead as he waits for me to stop crying, and for that alone I am grateful, because it feels like a kind of understanding.

"I think you forgot something," he says eventually, tapping the book in his lap. When I don't respond, only wipe my eyes and sniffle, he finally turns to look at me."Are you okay?"

"I can't believe how many times I've cried today."

"Me, too." He says, and I feel immediately awful. After all, he's going through the same thing.

"I'm sorry." I say quietly.

"Well, it's not like we had no warning." He says with a small smile. "Everyone always says to bring a handkerchief to weddings."

In spite to myself, I laugh. "I'm pretty sure nobody has ever suggested a handkerchief to me in my life." I say. "Kleenex, maybe."

We fall silent again, but it's not strained as it was earlier, at the church. A few cars drive up to the hotel entrance, the tires grumbling, the lights sweeping over us so that we're forced to squint.

"Are you okay?" I ask, and he nods.

"I will be."

"Did it go all right?"

"I suppose so," he says.

"Right," I say, closing my eyes. "Sorry."

He turns towards me, just slightly, his knee brushing up against mine. "I'm sorry, too. All that stuff I said about my father..."

"You were upset."

"I was angry."

"You were sad."

"I was sad," he agrees. "I still am."

"He's your dad."

Nick nods again. "You know part of me wishes I just came up to him and told him what's bothering me, just like you did. Maybe things would have turned out different," he sakes his head.

"It's not your fault," I say to him, glancing just for a moment. "You should have had more time with him."

Nick reaches up to loosen his tie. "I'm not sure that would have made a difference. We still hate each other and he still married her."

"It would have," I say, my throat thick. "It's not fair."

He looks away, blinking hard.

"Maybe you just both need some time and I'm sure he'll come around." I give him a small smile.

Nick turns to me, "Thanks."

"For what?"

"This." He says, "The rest of my family is home, but I felt like I couldn't breathe there. I just needed some fresh air."

I nod, "Me too."

"I just needed..." he trails off again, glancing over at me again. "Is it okay that I'm here?"

"Of course," I say, a bit too quickly. "Especially after I..."

"After you what?"

"Barged into the wedding earlier," I say, wincing a little at the memory. "Not that you didn't already have company."

He frowns at his shoes for a moment before it seems to click. "Oh," he says. "That was just my ex-girlfriend. She knows my dad. And she was worried how I'd handle it. But she was only there as a family friend. Really."

I feel a quick rush of relief. I hadn't realised just how powerfully I'd wished for this to be true until now.

"I'm glad she could be there," I tell him truthfully. "I'm glad you had someone."

"Yes, though _she_ didn't leave me with any reading material." He says, thumping a hand against the book.

"Yeah, but she also probably didn't force you to talk to her."

"Or tease me about my accent."

"Or show up without an invitation."

"That'd be both of us." He reminds me, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to the hotel, where a bellhop is watching us warily. "Why aren't you inside, anyway?"

I shrug.

"Claustrophobic?"

"No, actually," I say. "It hasn't been too bad."

"You've been imagining the sky, then?"

I look at him sideways. "I've been thinking about it all day."

"Me, too." He says, tipping his head back.

Somehow, almost without even realising it, we've moved closer together on the steps, so that although we're not quite leaning against each other, it would be difficult to fit anything between us. There's a scent of rain in the air, and the men smoking cigarettes nearby stub us out and head back inside. The bellhop peers up at the sky from beneath the brim of his cap, and the breeze makes the awning shudder and flap as if it were trying to take flight.

A fly lands on my knee, but I don't move to swat it away. Instead, we both watch it dart around for a moment before it takes off again, so fast we almost miss it.

"I wonder if he got to see the Tower of London." Nick says.

I give him a blank look.

"Our friend from the flight," he says with a grin. "The fly from the plane."

"Ah, right. I'm sure he did. He's probably off to check out nightlife now."

"After a busy day in London."

"After a _long_ day in London."

"The longest," Nick agrees. "I don't know about you, but the last time I slept was during that stupid duck movie."

I laugh. "That's not true. You passed out again later. On my shoulder."

"No way," he says. "Never happened."

"Trust me, it did." I say, bumping my knee against his. "I remember it all."

He smiles, "Then I suppose you also remember being a damsel in distress."

Now it's my turn to look indignant. "I was not." I say. "I just had some troubles with my suitcase and a floor..."

"You're lucky I came to your rescue." He says with a smirk.

"Right," I say, laughing. "My knight in shining armour."

"At you service."

"Can you believe that was only yesterday?"

Another plane crosses the patch of sky above us, and I lean into Nick as we watch, our eyes trained on the bright dots of light. After a moment, he nudges me forward gently so that he can stand up, then offers me a hand.

"Let's dance."

"Here?"

"I was thinking inside, actually," he glances around –his eyes skipping from the carpeted steps to the restless bellhop to the cars lining up outside the entrance –then nods. "But why not?"

I rise to my feet and smooth my dress, and then Nick positions his hands like a professional ballroom dancer, one on my back and the other in the air. His form is perfect, his face serious, and I step into his waiting arms with a sheepish grin.

"I have no idea how to dance like this."

"I'll show you," he says but we still haven't moved an inch. We're just standing there, poised and ready, as if waiting for the music to begin, both of us unable to stop smiling.

His hand on my back is like something electric, and being here like this, so suddenly close to him, is enough to make me lightheaded. It's a feeling like a falling, like forgetting the words to a song.

"I can't believe you're here." I say, my voice soft. "I can't believe you found me."

"You found me first." He says, and when he leans down to kiss me, it's sweet and slow and I know this will be the one I'll always remember. Because while the other two kisses felt like endings, this one is unquestionably a beginning.

The rain begins to fall as we stand there, a sideways drizzle that settles over us lightly. When I lift my chin again, I see a drop land on Nick's forehead and then slip down to the end of his nose and without thinking, I move my hand from his shoulder to wipe it away.

"We should go in," I say and he nods, taking my hand.

There's water on his eyelashes, and he's looking at me like I'm the answer to some sort of a riddle. We walk inside together, my dress already dotted with specks of rain, the shoulders of his suit shade darker than before, but we're both smiling like it's some sort of problem we can't shake, like a case of hiccups.

At the door to the ballroom, I pause, tugging his hand.

"Are you sure you're up for another wedding right now?"

Nick looks down at me carefully. "That whole plane ride, you didn't realise my father was marrying my governess, you know why?"

I'm not sure what to say.

"Because I was with _you_." He tells me. "I feel better when I'm with you."

"I'm glad," I say, and then I surprise myself by rising on my tiptoes and kissing his rough cheek.

We can hear the music on the other side of the door, and I take a deep breath before pushing it open. Most of the tables are empty now, and everyone is out on the dance floor, swaying in time to an old love song.

Nick once again offers his hand, and he leads me through the maze of tables, weaving past plates of half-eaten cake and sticky champagne glasses and empty coffee cups until we reach the middle of the room.

I glance around, no longer embarrassed to have to many pairs of eyes on me. The bridesmaids are not-so-subtly pointing and giggling, and from where she's dancing with Tom, her head resting on his shoulder, Taylor winks at me as if saying _I told you so_.

On the other side of the room, dad and Demi have slowed almost to a stop, both of them staring. But when he catches my eye, dad smiles knowingly, and I can't help beaming back.

This time when Nick offers his hand to dance, he pulls me close.

"What happened to those formal techinques of yours?" I say in his shoulder. "Don't all proper English gentlemen dance like that?"

I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm doing my summer research project on different styles of dancing."

"So does that mean we'll be doing the tango next?"

"Only if you're up for it."

I blush as his eyes glance down at my lips. I'm too embarrassed to kiss him in front of everyone...

"Did you know that people who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else?"

"You're ridiculous," I say, resting my head on his shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Yes," he says, laughing. "You, actually. About a thousand times today."

"Well, today's almost over." I say, glancing at the gold-trimmed clock on the other side of the room. "Only four more minutes. It's eleven fifty-six."

"That means we met twenty-four hours ago."

"Seems like it's been longer."

Nick looks down, "Hey, when do you plan to fly back home?"

My smile falters. I don't want to think about going back home. "My plane leaves at 10 PM on Monday."

Nick smiles, "Did you know that people who meet at least three different times within a twenty-four hour period are ninety-eight percent more likely to meet again?"

This time, I don't bother correcting him. Just this once, I'd like to believe that he's right.

"So you're telling me you'll just happen to be in the same plane with me in two days?" I brush my fingers against his cheek.

He bites it lightly and I suppress a smile. "You know," I stop dancing for a second and look him in the eyes. "when my mom told me how I had to go visit my dad for the whole weekend, I thought it'd be hell." I smile up at him. "Turns out I was wrong."

"So wrong," he smiles. "Imagine if you weren't late for your flight, though. We wouldn't of have met."

"Well, you have my suitcase to thank for." I giggle. "I don't think I would survive the flight without you, so thank you for that."

Nick waves his hand like it's nothing. "You're very easy to distract. Besides, you saved me too in those seven hours." He leans down and brushes our noses together.

"We're gonna get through this, Nick. Together." We start swaying again as a soft love song blasts from the speakers.

"Yeah," He lands a soft kiss on my cheek. "How about when we get back, whenever you want, we go grab some dinner?"

"I think Tuesday sounds amazing, pick me up at seven?" I giggle and he chuckles.

"Now even if we don't fly back together, we know we'll see each other again." Nick leans closer. I don't think about my dad, Demi, Taylor or any of the hundered people around us when Nick kisses me.

"In 72 hours, right?" I smile against his lips.

"In 72 hours."

"_And I'd just like to say, I thank god that you're here with me. And I know you too well to say that you're perfect, but you'll see, oh my sweet, love, you're perfect to me."_

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, it's the end. There won't be any epilogue, because I don't think you need one since this whole chapter was basically a whole lot of niley cuteness. And I actually like how I changed the end, than the one in the book. I do have the last sentence from the book somewhere in this chapter, though but it didn't finish the way the book did...I'm proud of all the reviews I got. Uhm, Once Upon A Magazine will be up if not before then next weekend, and then I'll upload a new story! :D P.S, the book this was based upon is called The Probability Of Love At First Sight by Jennifer E. Smith.


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